Shadow Repentance
by Kenjaje
Summary: Shortly after Malefor's defeat Spyro and Cynder continue to purge the remnant evils of the world. Cynder must undergo an ordeal under strange circumstances; she must make up for her past in order to live as a free Dragon.
1. Chapter 1

The Legend of Spyro

Shadow Repentance

Chapter 1

Twilight fleets from the spires of rock that dot the sea. The moon shines upon them, turning their loneliness and isolation into beacons that call forth the dreams of the sea; lost souls in the growing night.

From high above, looking down upon the water, glowing bands twinkle and flicker just beneath the water's tension; Crysafish are nocturnal hunters. Their pattern marks the warm currents, and their light piques the curiosity of the Gullobill, a slightly dimwit bird that feeds off the sparkling algae, which Crysafish so expertly mimic.

The water breaks and a Gullobill falls victim to the waves.

Stars above shower across the sky, and galaxies are lost in an endless dance. Wyverns fly above the clouds, their caws incessant and their chatter grating. They fly toward the sinking sun, a fruitless chase they always lose.

"I wonder what this looked like three days ago."

Upon one of the many spires amid the ocean, an anonymous island identical to the ones surrounding it, a bright fire whispered as it bit the air.

"That doesn't matter anymore."

Two Dragons rested in the firelight, side-by-side. They looked toward the Wyvern's path and watched them shrink into the distance.

The black Dragon rested her head upon the purple Dragon's shoulder, speaking softly as if the island was asleep.

"What matters now is that _today _it's beautiful—well, to_night_ really."

"I know, Cynder, and tomorrow it'll look even better." There came a sigh. "I just wish Ignitus could see it…"

"Spyro…" She lifted her head, speaking his name.

He rose, and went to the fire to tamp it out. The air felt cold against their warmed scales, but the shivers did not last very long. More Wyverns cawed from above.

"We'll have to hop the islands again tonight," Spyro said, watching as the sky became infested with them.

"You think they're sore we killed their master?"

He shook his head.

"I dunno what to think," he walked back to Cynder's side. "We have to hurry to Warfang. The war might still be on."

Their eyes locked for a moment, and then they watched the skies.

"There's a break," she said hurriedly.

"Let's go, that island to our left. Stay away from the Crysafish."

They leapt into the air, their wings gently billowing in the winds. They kept to the dark, cautious of the enemies looming overhead. The flight did not last long; in just a few minutes they reached the quiet island. Spyro alighted on the sand while Cynder lost the draft and had to stand against the waves for a few yards to shore.

He met her halfway and helped her through the sand that seemed eager to fall from under their talons. All the while they watched the sky, and the dark bodies of the long creatures snaking across overhead.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Cynder insisted, before Spyro could even ask. "There's no time to waste—we _are _going the right way, right?"

"I think so…" He said as he led the way to the other end of the island, a brisk walk for a Dragon's pace.

"I guess I can't argue. The Wyverns _have _to be going _somewhere_ important."

"And what's more important to them than Warfang?" His gaze darted up. "No choice, far island ahead. We have to split up."

"You take the darker path they won't see me as easily—Spyro the _dark…_" It was too late; he was already in the air. She took off with a huff. _Why do you have to be that way?_

The closest island was several minutes away, but Cynder kept her eyes on Spyro and the smog that hovered miles above him. The Crysafish didn't reflect off his scales as brightly as she thought they would, but every second that passed he was a bright purple candle.

She watched as he lost the draft for a moment, dropping like a stone. Her pulse halted, and resumed only when he beat his wings for three or four seconds. She tore her eyes for a moment to look ahead; the island was much closer than she expected. A minute later, she alighted within tall shrubs, and peered out behind her to watch him land only a few yards away.

When they met, she realized she was panting heavily.

"There's…a lot more of them…since last night…" she heaved.

"That makes me…really nervous…"

She was inwardly glad he was heaving too. At least she wasn't lagging behind.

"Come on, we're losing time." He led the way.

"Right," she said as she followed. They skulked through the brush as the Wyverns seemed to thin. "Look, Spyro, they're—" She let out a yell as something bit her side; she rolled away, crashing into him.

"What's the matter?" he moved in front of her as he got up.

"Something bit me," she said with a shaken voice.

He went to the direction she had rolled from, panning the foliage. His gaze paused, and a chuckle rolled into a quiet laugh.

"What's so funny?" She huffed defensively.

He went over to where she had gotten bit, and with his talon he pulled the stem of a plant that had a large, bulbous and face-like body, complete with serrated teeth. "Frogweed," he said. It seemed to writhe in his grasp. He pulled it from the ground and tossed it aside. "That's a good sign."

"The thing bit me," she snapped, "How is that a good sign?"

"It means we're close to home." There was a sort of gleam in his eye she had not seen before.

"We're close to the Dragon City?"

"Different home," he said as a smile crossed his face. He looked up. "The Wyvern's are gone, we can fly freely now." His wings rapped at the air as he lifted himself a few feet off the ground.

"I'll follow your nose," she said, hovering to his side.

They took off quickly, hitting the warm vents to the height of some of the spires that poked out of the islands.

Far in the distance, a very large island was coming up to their left; largest they had seen in a while. It boasted a few mountains; one of them was maybe volcanic. Cynder could see lots of trees a ways inland from the shores and possibly a river but it was hard to tell.

Several more minutes into the flight, Cynder could see something glowing a few miles from the base of one of the island's mountains. It radiated a dim, violet hue immersed behind a shroud of coal-black fog.

"Spyro!" She shouted, the wind in her face chilled her tongue.

"What is it?" He replied, his wings beating to stall his momentum.

"Look over there," she said as she approached, pointing at the fog. "I think it's another one."

"Oh no," he said with dread, "It can't be…"

"Come on, we have to check it out."

"Cynder wait for me!"

They shot downward, and Spyro twirled to pass her. The smog approached quickly and as they dove toward it they felt consumed by the thick and still air.

Cynder caught up to Spyro and held on to his extended hand; they followed the ebbing purple light toward the heart of the glow. They alighted at the edge of a shimmering pool of water—or what looked like water.

The surface appeared lucid, but at the same time oily and viscous. Wiggled and pitched, and every moment or so it would skew right before it shimmered.

"This one is different…" Spyro said cautiously.

"Maybe it's just the lighting, I'll bet the crystal is in the water." She stepped forward as she spoke, and Spyro attempted to stop her;

"Cynder wait you don't—"

"It's okay," she said, her talon submerged up to the elbow. "Feels like water to me…except the surface it's kind of weird. It's like—"

There came a gurgle from the water, and the Dragon disappeared into its maw; Spyro called her name as she was pulled in, and stepped to the edge. He was hesitant to trap himself, but the other half of him told him to jump in.

Her head emerged as she treaded the water; she was struggling. She gasped for air, and with bulging eyes she was pulled back in before she could get her lung's capacity.

Spyro leapt in. The water felt far from normal; it threatened to consume him, pulling him downward. He could not see anything, but he did feel her leg kick his arm. He grabbed her ankle and tugged gently three times before he pulled, hoping she would understand that it was him.

He reached farther and grasped the base of her opposing wing. He pulled it gently, and it gave way; his grasp shot from it to her shoulder. He managed to pull her upright, and hooked his arms underneath hers. She seemed to go limp in his hold.

He held onto his own wrist in front of her chest and started kicking upward, trying to use his wings to help. He felt his limbs tingle as he started losing the air in his lungs, and unwisely he thrashed about more vigorously.

He risked losing his encircling hold and reached outward, and found a purchase of the surrounding wall behind him. His claws dug into the earth and he pulled upward with his hand.

Cynder threatened to slip out of his grasp.

He locked his foot into the surface and turned to face it, replacing his hand around her. His other foot also dug into the earth, and with the last of his energy he pushed upward, barely breaching the surface.

With great effort the climbed out of the water, and laid Cynder down on her side. She began to cough, the dark liquid sputtered from her mouth. Like slime it covered her, and seemed to crawl toward her wrists and ankles. He looked himself over—he was completely clean.

"Spy…" she coughed.

"Are you all right?" He asked, looking at her eyes.

"I can't…move…"

The ground began to rumble, and a hiss emanated through the air, causing the fog above them to bellow. Spyro looked to the pool, and several dark shapes broke through the surface, landing on the far side of the bank. They were lemur-like in form, akin to the Shadows—but these were different. Dark skin seemed to cover their boney figure, which could be seen through several tattered holes.

They squealed, and black wing-like appendages unfolded behind them. Even though there were only five, Spyro did not care to stand ground. He took Cynder into his arms, and flew into the smog. It swirled around him, disorienting him as he fled. After a moment he glanced back, and saw the creatures were only a few yards away and gaining.

Cynder's weight made his flight difficult, but compared to the adamantine orbs it was not impossible. He tried to gain height but to no avail; he looked back as he felt one of the creatures grab onto his tail. He turned, and the creature darted forward, only to meet his heel in its forehead. It shot backward, hitting the one immediately behind it. They disappeared as he tried to regain control.

He broke through the edge of the smog and felt the refreshing sea-salted air fill his lungs. It gave him strength.

He headed to the island, into the forest. It was a risk carrying Cynder but if he could weave between the trees he could maybe lose them and hide in the mountains. The world fell to darkness as he disappeared under the canopy.

Sharp turns were hard; he had to use his feet against the trees to change directions often. He did not look behind him now as he maneuvered clumsily through loose the forest, but he could hear the hissing and chattering of the creatures behind him.

He headed toward the mountain, guessing the direction based on what he had seen before he dove into the trees. He crossed a river, and decided to fly upstream a bit to catch his bearings. He looked behind him, and did not see the creatures emerge. He rose, just above the canopy, and spotted where he needed to go, glimpsing a cave a few miles away. He fell back into the canopy and looked behind him once more—nothing.

His instincts flared; the creatures leapt out of the trees to his left. He barreled and knocked three of them over, recovering by slamming his foot into a tree and launched to the direction of the cave. Again he didn't look behind him, and tried to fly even faster as he closed the gap.

He broke through the canopy and veered right to adjust course; just as he entered the petit mouth the creatures leapt up through the treetops behind him. He could see them as he carried Cynder deeper into the cave. He placed her down and then walked several yards back toward the entrance. He could not see the creatures now, and it was impossible to tell if he had lost them.

He went back to where his companion lay, and sat against the wall beside her. His eyes did not blink for hours as he watched both the entrance and the deep recess of darkness, his every nerve ready to strike at anything that moved.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 2**

Cynder felt her leg being tugged at her ankle; she felt the swirling, disorienting whirl of the water around her. Her breath caught as her leg was tugged again. She opened her eyes.

Wherever she was, it was dark. A third tug; she looked in its direction.

Spyro's face was illuminated by a dim glow. It reflected off his horns, cheeks, and teeth. His jaws held something that wrapped around her leg. He tugged again, and she heard a growl roll through his throat.

"I'm awake," she said groggily as she stood. He let go of the glowing ring and walked around to her front, facing her as she stood.

"Are you all right?"

"You know I'm fine," she said, although her head did ache and she was a little dizzy. She looked down at her ankles. "What are…?" Around each one was a dark ring made of what looked like black crystal. They felt uncomfortably tight against her scales, and they were rather heavy.

Without warning, Spyro's head shot downward and his teeth again gripped the one on her left fore-talon. He yanked ferociously, and at first she braced her hand. After a few moments, she stopped and cupped her hand under his chin, lifting his head. His teeth still gripped onto the fetter.

"It's no use," she said. She felt his warm breath over her wrist as he sighed, and then he released the object. "Whatever these are, you'll break before they do." She looked at it, its glow shimmering. "Where did they come from?"

"I don't really know. I think it had something to do with the pool. I jumped in to save you, and once we were out you were covered in…_something_. I think that might have had something to do with them."

"My hero," she said with a swooned voice.

"Cut it out," he grumbled.

"Were you affected from the pool at all?"

He shook his head.

"Good. At least it's just one of us."

A sour look came over Spyro's eyes. He would rather it was it was him with the fetters. "Maybe when we get back Ignitus will be able t—"

Before his grief hit, Cynder distracted him. "Where are we?"

"In a—in a cave," he said, recovering his voice. "On the island still. I had to run from some weird-looking Shadows. They came out of the pool and started flying after us."

"_Flying_?" she repeated.

"I know," he shook his head, "They weren't like the ones we fought earlier."

"Even after the Master's gone, the puppets still want to put on a show."

"Let's go. We're near a continent—I think it _is _home."

"We're not going anywhere," she said, blocking his path to the mouth of the cave, "You think I can't tell you haven't slept? You look like you're about to fall over."

He pushed past her. "I'm fine," he said curtly, "Maybe I'll rest when we get to land."

"_Maybe_?" She shook her head. "All right, it's your call. It'll be embarrassing when I have to carry you the rest of the way after you keel over."

The continent was not far from the island at all, but before they had made their way they circled their shelter a few times. The fog and the pool were still present but there was no activity around them, and despite Cynder's thought there were no inhabitants to worry about.

As they came to the continent and floated just a bit above the treetops, Spyro seemed almost guided in his direction. Every once in a while he would veer left or veer right as if looking for landmarks. At one point he stalled in the air and turned about in a circle, looking at the mundane, gray landscape. She caught up to him.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Home," he said distractedly.

"Okay but where is that? All I see is a disgusting swamp and Dragon City isn't exactly over the rainbow."

"I _knew _it!" He exclaimed.

Cynder furrowed her brow, but had no chance to get his attention; he dashed downward. She followed, craning her head at first before her body could turn. He almost stumbled as he landed in a run. She had to stay in the air just to keep up with him.

Closer to the ground she could see the radiant hues of the otherwise murky swamp. Mushrooms populated the ground like wildfire in every color, some of them glowing. Mosses of red, dark blue and the predictable green covered what the mushrooms did not, giving the ground the appearance of fur.

So absorbed in the new scenery she almost lost Spyro as he ducked through a thick tangle of vines; she followed, finally forced to land. When she emerged from the veil, covered in a smell she did not particularly like, she saw Spyro standing in front of a small dwelling sunken into the wall. It was the lighted carcass of a Frogweed plant, although it was petrified.

"Mom, dad?" He almost whispered the words.

As she approached, two dragonflies emerged from the dwelling. She felt awkward in the silence that followed, which was broken by the female dragonfly's gasp as she covered her mouth with her hands.

"Spyro?" The father questioned. "Our little Spyro?"

"In the scales," he beamed.

"Oh Flash, don't call him little—he's grown up now." She looked toward Cynder, and in the loudest possible voice exclaimed, "And look, he has a girlfriend!"

"_Mom_!" Spyro hissed through his teeth.

Cynder turned her head for a moment, pretending she didn't hear anything. "Oh hello," she said as if suddenly realizing she was even awake, "Spyro, you never said your parents were…dragonflies?"

"What's the matter son? You come here to introduce her to us and you don't even tell her what your parents are? Are you ashamed of us? Is that why you haven't stopped by in _three years_?"

Spyro's eyes bolt open. "What? Dad—no that's not—"

"Relax, I'm just yankin' your wing."

Spyro forced a chuckle as his father patted his nose.

"Don't be so hard on him dear, it's probably not his fault he's been gone for three years." The mother dragonfly turned to the girl dragon. "What's your name, dear?"

_Dear? _"My name is Cynder," she replied._ Doesn't she know…?_

"What a lovely name," she said with a smile. "You can call me Nina."

"All right, Mrs. Nina," Cynder said with an awkward smile. She looked to Spyro, "Don't…don't they know who I am; aren't they afraid?"

"What do you mean?" Flash asked, looking her over. "You don't look very frightening. Is there something you're not telling us?"

"Well _yeah_, I'm the Black—"

"Cynder's kinda famous dad," Spyro interrupted, "She once took on a hundred Grublins all by herself, with her wings tied down."

Flash chuckled. "My goodness, she is fearful. You sure know how to pick 'em."

"Spyro, dear," Nina said meekly, "Where's your brother?"

His mouth hung ajar for a second. "He's all right, mom, don't worry—it's…it's a long story…"

"Can we hear it over dinner?" Flash asked, "You mom is cooking up some mushroom stew."

"Oh no, the stew!" Nina rushed back into the dwelling.

Flash started to follow, but then turned back around, "Uh, we'll be right back son. Don't go away, okay?"

The Dragons were left alone.

"A hundred Grublins?" Cynder asked, looking at him with one eye.

"My parents don't know you. They don't need to know your past."

"You don't need to lie for me either." It sounded more sourly than she intended. She made it up by finally looking at him normally and asking, "Who is your brother?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

She thought for a moment, and then danced her head side to side as she realized, "Sparx, of course." She sighed, "When we get back, don't tell him, but I actually kinda miss him."

"I bet he misses you, too."

"Just don't tell him what I told you." she repeated in a whisper as the dwelling opened up.

The serrated teeth could be seen, a few were chipped away. Inside was a small table adorned with bowls the size of raindrops. Cynder counted four, and had to stifle a chuckle when the dragonflies alighted at either side of the table and told them to dig in.

Inwardly, she wondered if they would be so hospitable if they knew…

Spyro lifted the tiny bowl with intimate care and poured the drop of stew onto his tongue. So as not to be rude, Cynder followed, mimicking his care.

"So tell us son," the father dragonfly began, "what's happened to you these last three years?"

"A lot, dad," Spyro replied. "It started as soon as I left home. I met a Dragon named Ignitus…"

Cynder watched him carefully upon mentioning the name, but she did not see any grief on his face. She listened intently as he recounted the entirety of his adventure, paying close attention the beginning—a story she had not heard either.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 3**

Dinner was well over before Spyro finally ended his tale. Of course it was much different from Cynder's account, for he had conveniently left out some details. In his version she was not mentioned as the Black Dragon; he did not even glance at her as he told this portion of the story.

She entered the tale on the ship; a lost Dragon captured, just as he was, and forced to fight in the arena. This is where he incorporated her Grublin-slaying boast. If he was improvising he was very good at it; he remembered such detail and would twist it just barely to fit the story.

He gave her a tragic role in his play. When the apes came for Spyro she willingly took his place, sacrificing her own safety so that he could escape. His parents looked at her with awe in their eyes, admiring her courage, her selflessness. She reminded herself it was all a lie.

"What happened to you, dear?" Nina asked her.

"They…tried to get me to reveal where Spyro was. They offered to make me one of Malefor's…honored servants, if I cooperated."

"And what if you didn't cooperate?" Flash inquired.

There was a moment of silence.

"Anyway…" Spyro began again.

From there, she played along with Gaul and offered to help them. When Spyro arrived she pretended to be on their side, but was really on his; again she risked herself by attacking Gaul. It took Cynder a moment to remember if this was true or not; in fact she hardly remembered anything beyond getting taken from the boat.

She remembered what Malefor had said: she intentionally lured him to the Well of Souls, to bring her Master back into the world.

From this point on, his account was more to the letter. He continued to omit the link between her and the Dark Master, nor did he mention Ignitus's death, but she did not quite listen. Her thoughts obsessed with Malefor's words, and she struggled to recall her memories—her mind was at a loss.

"My goodness, Spyro," Nina said upon the tale's conclusion, "You and Cynder are such brave and strong heroes."

"Well of course he is, hun. He's _our _son."

"I'm no hero," Cynder muttered under her breath.

"Of course you are, dear."

Cynder blinked; Nina had heard her. "No…really, if it wasn't for me—"

"If it wasn't for you, we probably wouldn't be looking at our Spyro today," Flash spoke with much respect. "And Sparx helped you out too, of course," he added, clearing his throat.

Cynder sighed, and tugged at one of her horns—the equivalent to scratching one's scalp.

"Cynder, dear," Nina began with embellishment, "where did you get such a lovely bracelet?"

Cynder looked at her wrist; the glowing shackle seemed to chuckle fiendishly. "I…don't exactly know," she admitted.

"Those aren't bracelets mom," Spyro said, "We don't know what they are but they're not natural."

Nina flew to the bracelet and touched it with her hand.

"It feels like crystal," she observed, "and it's awfully snug," she tried to move it but it barely nudged. "How long have you had them?"

"Since last night," the Dragon replied, "There was this weird looking pool of water, and—"

"Wait," Flash interrupted, "Pool of water? Dark, oily, goopy, fiendishly-evil-looking water?"

"It looked evil to me, dad," Spyro stated.

"Those things have been popping up all over the swamp ever since the storm. Strange things have happened to those that go near them."

"It's so sad," Nina began, "One even showed up at your old play grounds Spyro."

"How many are there?" Spyro questioned.

"I don't know exactly…half a dozen, maybe? They started showing up a few days ago."

Spyro flapped his wings, and hovered above the ground.

"Oh no, dear you're not thinking of going—"

"I have to, mom."

Cynder hovered beside him, ready to take off and follow. He looked at her.

A moment of silence passed between them.

"Guard your parents," she said, and slowly landed with a nod, "got it."

"I'll be back soon."

"Be careful, son!"

Spyro quickly disappeared into a sky the same color as himself.

It took a moment for him to remember exactly where his old playing grounds were; in a way the entire swamp was his playing ground. He and Sparx had left their print in almost every nook and cranny; as he walked through the murky ankle-deep sludge he spotted at least three hiding places Sparx had used and four that he had used during their many games of hide-and-seek.

He became a little sad; it was the first time he had ever been out here alone, without his brother. He silently promised that he would come back with Sparx and play another game—just one last game.

Finally, he approached a clearing in the vines and more solid land. Already the cloud of black smog taunted him with whispering puffs. When he emerged into the open he could see the pool of dark liquid breathing the smog like a sickly and putrid sore in earth.

He watched it from a distance at first, observing it cautiously. The cloud shifted with the hot and timid winds that skulked through the muck. He watched and listened for any signs of movement, any hint of the creatures that had appeared from the other pool the night before.

For five long minutes he waited, before he finally took a step forward. At the edge of the pool he was reminded of how strange the water looked. It was as if the pool pretended to show its bottom, but in fact hid something far deeper than you could see. He wondered just how deep the pool was. He hefted a well-sized rock in his hand, and set it at the edge, gently tipping it to roll into the water.

Almost as quickly as it had entered, it dissolved into the black fog.

Spyro grit his teeth, and swiped at warbling surface. It did not behave like normal water. His talons cut grooves into the surface as if it was made of jelly, and a frozen splash hung in the air. He put his hand upon it; it felt hard and crystalline. Slowly it fell back into the water.

Cautiously, he dipped his finger into the surface. It felt warm and murky. He lifted his hand, and the liquid dripped viscously off his finger. Frustrated, he slapped the surface, and watched as it beveled inward, rippling violently; his hand did not break into the surface.

He struck the surface with his talon, repeating the grooves and the frozen splash. He struck again, and again and again; more groves scored the surface, surrounded by crystal walls gently falling in slow motion. He jumped backward, his wings catching him in the air, and darted across the pool. His rear talons cut through the entire length of the surface.

The pool hissed and protested as he landed at the other side; finally it was reacting. Then the surface began to bulge in several places and the hissing and whispering of the creatures came to his ear.

They broke through the surface, seven of them hatching like spawn from the sludge. Their strike was immediate and fierce; Spyro barely had time to dodge.

Three rebounded from the strike and leapt in his direction, clinging to him; pinning him down. He struggled, gripping one by the boney arm, and swung him in a circle knocking the rest aside.

Another leapt from the other group; Spyro's talon cut through his black skin. The creature fell and dissolved into black smoke.

Spyro took the offensive, leaping into the air. They followed as he flipped, and he clutched two by their necks. They screamed and hissed as he dropped to the ground, ultimately turning them to black ash.

The four remaining surrounded him, and began to strike one at a time in staccato. He dodged one, dodged another; but the third came at an angle from which he could not recover. It latched his wings and pulled him backward. Another landed on his stomach, scratching and tearing at his scales.

Spyro yelled in pain as the other two restrained his legs; his stomach burned with every strike, causing his muscles to tense and strain. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and circled his head, ramming his horns forward; they gored into the attacking creature, and he threw it backward, sending it tumbling before it evaporated.

The two at his feet flinched as the one on his back was hurdled past them; they had no time to react before Spyro leapt into the air. They hissed, struggling to hold onto his ankles. He flipped in the air, end over end, gathering momentum before shot to the ground, his knees locked forward. The creatures screamed as they were raked across the ground, and as Spyro came to a halt, smoke trailed behind him.

He breathed heavily, clutching his scored stomach. A few cuts were beginning to weep blood; he winced as he tried to stand upright.

He looked toward the pool as it hissed violently, bellowing copious amounts of fog. Nine—twelve—seventeen—twenty—the creatures kept emerging, each one gazing at him with yellow eyes through their black cowls.

Spyro gnashed his teeth, closed his eyes, and braced himself for their charge.

"Spyro, think fast!" Cynder's voice echoed behind him from the high ledges of the swamp surrounding the clearing. He looked to see her arching back, a blue crystal prism in her hand. She huffed as she threw it forward.

Spyro felt the ground rumble as the creatures charged. He jumped into the air, catching the crystal in the midst of a roll. He landed behind the mass of creatures; they turned to face him.

He growled with vitality as the crystal glowed in his hand; the blood on his stomach receded back into the wounds as they quickly sealed. An aura of magic surrounded him, and as the crystal died and turned into an empty sapphire shell, he threw it at one of the creatures. It hissed as it stuck into its cloak, before it dissolved.

The others charged; Spyro roared as they did and the earth trembled with his strength. Two dozen of them surrounded him, piling on him, scratching and clawing; hissing and screaming. Spyro opened his eyes, his head the only visible sign he was amidst the mob. Emerald beams of light erupted around his neck.

The creatures were flung in every direction, arching in the air. They fell onto the ground, tumbling and rolling. Their black cloaks turned gray and their flailing limbs became rigid and immobile. As the air settled, their motionless bodies rested silently on the ground; turned to stone.

"Behind you!"

Spyro turned just as one last creature leapt into the air. It choked and gagged as he caught it by the throat. It clawed at his wrist, its legs flailing.

Spyro opened his maw, and a boiling stream of flame erupted in the creature's face. It hissed and squealed, violently thrashing in the Dragon's talon, until finally it fell limp. Spyro closed his mouth and released his grip. The creature fell, erupting into black mist halfway before it hit the ground.

Behind him, he heard a slow and emphatic clap. "Well done, son," his father said proudly as Spyro turned around; "A little brutal…but I guess that's what happens when you face the most evil thing in the world."

Cynder glided down to him, and rubbed her cheek against his. This time it was her turn, "Are you all right?"

"Thanks to you," he replied. "Where did you find the crystal?"

"Your parents had it. They had a bad feeling, and wanted to give it to you, just in case."

"We found that when we found your egg," his mother said, a few tears in her eyes, "We knew Dragons used them for power, so we kept it in case of an emergency."

Spyro looked toward the pool. "How many did you say there were?"

"Half a dozen," Flash reiterated, "Maybe more."

Spyro stared at the rolling smog for several moments. A flock of startled birds flew a from gnarled and moss-covered tree nearby. He turned back toward his parents, and took in a decisive breath. "Mom, dad, I want you to come with us to the Dragon City."

His parents fluttered in the air for a moment, exchanging glances.

"You want us to leave our home, son?" Flash asked.

"It's not safe here," Spyro reasoned, "You saw those creatures, they're ruthless. If they found our home—found _you_—then…"

Nina flew to her son and rested her hand gently upon his nose to calm him.

"I understand your worries, dear—but…"

"I agree with Spyro," Cynder spoke suddenly.

Spyro and his parents turned their eyes to her.

"I mean, he's right. If you stay here, you're putting yourselves in danger. You'll be protected in Dragon City, just until we figure out what's going on." She nodded as she spoke, "Besides, I'm sure Sparx would like to see you."

Flash thought for a moment longer, and then looked toward Nina.

"It's your decision, dear," She said.

"Son, your mother and I trust you and Cynder. If you two feel we should go to this Dragon City, then we'll go."

"But…can we take some things with us?" Nina pleaded.

"Of course, mom," Spyro said. "Get what you need and meet us by the old skull-cave. I know a shortcut we can take, and it might be safer for us."

"All right, son. We'll be there in a jiffy."

They took off toward home.

Spyro sighed with relief. "Thanks Cynder," he said.

She rubbed her cheek against his. "Not a problem. I would have done the same for my parents."

Spyro took a step forward, and she followed him, thoughts nipping at her tongue. She took a breath, and finally worked up the nerve to speak;

"Spyro…about luring you to the Well of Souls…"

He paused, and spoke without looking back. "Don't believe anything Malefor said."

"What if I did, Spyro? What if I intentionally lured you there—what if it's my fault he was freed in the first place?"

"That doesn't matter anymore," he turned to her.

"It does to _me_." She looked down at the shackles around her ankles. "Somehow what he said feels…right. But I can't remember."

Spyro sat in front of her, and put his hand upon hers, covering the glowing ring. "Do you believe him?" He asked, gazing into her eyes.

Cynder shied and lowered her head, focusing her attention on Spyro's shoulder. At last he meek reply came, "Yes."

He lowered his head, and blew gently onto her cheek—a Dragon's kiss. "Then I forgive you."

Without another word she followed him, a sense of clarity finally resting inside her stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 4**

The swamp was eerily dark as night began to fall. The glowing flora caste shadows that twitched and swayed across the ground; the chirrup of the crickets constantly kept the ear's attention; and the still air made Cynder's lungs heavy.

The skull cave was aptly named. The mouth of the cave was shaped to the mouth of an apish skull, its top curved like cheekbones. The eyes were pocked on the stone, left one noticeably higher than the right. A vine hung from the nose, giving the sense of a trail of mucus left unattended. Moss covered the cheeks and scalp like short, thick hair.

Nina fixed a small satchel around her son's neck. He shook his head a bit to make sure that it was snug, and she nodded approvingly. "I dearly wish we didn't have to go through this cave…" She mused.

"It's the only way. This will take us to the Dragon Temple, and from there we can reach Dragon City safely."

"It'll be nice to see the Temple again," Cynder said to no one in particular. _Or what's left of it, _she said inwardly. "Let's go, I'll watch out behind us."

Spyro nodded, and led the way, his feet plodding in the soft loam.

"Thank you, dear," Nina said, as she fluttered into the cave behind Flash and her son.

They walked silently in the darkness, guided by Spyro's memories. Cynder kept her eyes all around them; she was constantly looking over her shoulder, listening for any sign of movement. Every sound above a rustle she misconstrued as a hiss, and swept her eyes broadly. Several times she confused her own breathing, and had to shake her head to steady the nerves.

She calmed herself after what felt like a half hour, and took to watching Spyro's tail whipping back and forth.

He kept his gaze forward, no hint of hesitation in his step. He seemed confident, and his parents seemed a little too relaxed as well.

Perhaps she was just overzealous. And yet…

She stopped as Spyro did, and swept her eyes behind them once more.

"What's wrong son?" His father asked in a hushed voice.

"Nothing. We're close to the Temple; this is where I first met Ignitus."

Cynder waited just a moment as the group continued onward. She couldn't help but feel something wasn't right.

"Hurry, dear," Nina called to her.

She trotted briskly to them. A few moments later they arrived at the entrance to the tunnel that would lead them to the Dragon Temple.

Spyro explained that when Ignitus first took him here, the door was closed, and he had to open it to let Ignitus through.

For them the door lay open, although it did not seem very welcoming. Ignoring the foreboding air, Spyro led them into the main chamber. The room was vast, with many corridors and tunnels burrowed into the walls. Blue crystals lined the left wall, dwarfing red, green, and other crystals nearby.

"We should gather our strength," Spyro said to his companion. "You go first."

"All right," she said as she stepped forward.

Dragonkind draws power from these crystals; red replenished their vitality, allowing them to regain their fatigue and strength; green replenished their power, allowing them to utilize their magical abilities. But most important was blue; not only did it grant the effects of both the red and green gems, it also increased their strength for a short time, allowing them to perform more powerful magic.

Cynder grasped a blue prism in her hand. She twisted and wrenched it from its bedding. The earth around it crumbled away as she lifted it into the air. It was large enough for her to hold in both hands. She hefted it reverently, and allowed its power to envelope her.

But suddenly the crystal shimmered and cracked. She gasped and let it fall to the floor. It shattered into pieces on impact. The wall turned dark; a rolling fog of black began to bellow from all around them.

"No…" Spyro muttered. "The doors!"

Behind them, the door began to fall. The pathway before them was beginning to close as well; a large slab of rock was quickly falling to cover the entrance.

"Come Nina, we must move quickly,"

"I'm right behind you dear,"

"Cynder come on!"

The family raced to the entrance, and Spyro turned to see where Cynder was. She stood, looking stupefied at her wrist. The ring about it was shimmering, as if being awakened from a slumber.

"Cynder!"

She shook her head, and looked at him for a moment. "Go on." She said.

"What?"

"Go on, I'll catch up."

Spyro shook his head, "I'm not leaving you behind."

"Hurry dear the door is closing!"

In just a moment the slab threatened to close the path completely. Spyro stood just inches before it, staring with gritted teeth at Cynder, ordering her to come. She narrowed her eyes.

_Something is here; something wants me to stay. I want to know what it is._

Spyro balked as she charged forward, lowering her head. Her scalp collided with his side; he tumbled with an exhalation, rolling through the last seconds of escape, his wings barely passing through.

"Cynder!" He charged back at the wall, ramming it with his own horns. "_Cynder!_"

The air seemed to come alive with whispers and hisses, as if a dozen voices were waiting in the shadows speaking all at once. She looked down at the shackles, each one glowing vibrantly. The feeling was unmistakable; something wanted to _talk _to her.

"I'm here." She said curtly.

"_The Black Dragon…_" The voice whispered, reverberating through the fog.

"My name is Cynder." She insisted.

An omnipresent laughter swirled around the air.

"_Call yourself as you will; you are still a slave to the Darkness._"

She looked down once again the shackles. _Slave._

"Whoever you are, I am not your slave. Whatever you want from me, I won't do it. Understand?" Despite how strongly she spoke, her voice still felt meek against the roiling fog.

"_Fine. If you do not want to be free, I will not help._"

She blinked, stepping forward, trying to find the source of the voice. "What do you mean?" She said, straining her ears.

"_You have done so many a malice deed, Black Dragon. If you want to be free you will heed my advice._"

"Who are you?"

The voice laughed; she turned around, but nothing was there.

"_What does that matter? I offer your freedom. Is that not what you want?_"

The earth began to rumble; she looked down at her feet. The fog was gathering upon the ground.

"How can I trust you?"

"_You want trust?_" The voice hissed. "_Fine!_"

Her left ankle burned as the shackle began to shimmer violently. She winced as it shrank, constricting around her painfully. Finally with a bone-wrenching crack, it shattered into several pieces, thumping upon the floor.

She felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She felt warmer, her heart tasting something sweet for once. She shook her foot, and set it gently on the ground. "All right," she said after a pause, still looking about, "I'll play along. What do I need to do to be 'free'?"

"_You must atone for you past. Rectify your malice heart by garnering the forgiveness of those you have harmed. Earn their trust and gain their acceptance._"

"Who are you?" She shouted once again, displaying a shackled wrist to the air, "Did _you_ do all this?"

The ground rumbled, and a throb of hot air slammed against her from behind. The wall gave way in several cracks, and dark liquid began pouring through, flooding the chamber to her elbows in moments. The other wall began to weep as well, and very quickly she found the water up to her neck.

She struggled, and managed to rise up enough to beat her wings against the air; she trudged across the liquid as it rose, toward an unbroken wall covered in vines. Just as she clutched the vines, the hot air fell downward, and a cool updraft slammed her against the wall.

The ground dissolved into a mix of swirling fog and sludge. The wind threatenedd to pull her down, but she dug her hind-talons into the wall, and managed to climb several feet to an alcove. She breathed heavily as she rested for just a moment, before the smog began to creep up into her haven.

She turned away and ran into the channel, blindly following it. It dropped abruptly, and she tumbled, rolling downward farther and father. She groped and grasped for any hold she could find. The open path lead her to a hole, down another chute, and at last she landed with a heavy slam upon mossy stone.

"Cynder!"

"Oh dear, she doesn't look so good."

"Let me help you, son,"

"I'm fine, please—we have to get out of here."

"_Now _you want to go," Spyro said as he lifted her up. He noticed the bareness of her ankle; "Hey, what happened to—?"

"No time, this place is going to flood!" She took his hand and led him forward, Flash and Nina following urgently in their wake.

Spyro looked behind as he felt the ground rumble, and a dark fog began to creep up from behind them. Stones began to loosen from the top of the tunnel and fell in heaps and piles behind them.

Cynder halted, but Spyro kept his momentum; their hands tore apart and he tripped, rolling once over. A large stone shivered high over his head, and abruptly detached with a loud _crack!_

It dropped far too fast for him to react; he braced a hand above his head, ready to feel the crushing weight. A siren scream burst into his left ear, and he felt a tangible push against his side; the rock that had threatened to smash him deflected in the air, smashing into a wall. The rock and wall crumbled into a single pile of dust and rubble.

"There's an exit through here!" Flash shouted, rushing up to the rift in the wall.

Spyro felt Cynder's hands lift him, pushing him forward at the same time. He ran to the rocks, clambering up the rubble like an awkward staircase. Behind them he glimpsed the flooding waters crashing against the wall as they rounded the corner.

He fell through to the other side, and Cynder was halfway up. Her hand appeared from within the rift; Spyro leapt up to grasp it.

She looked back as a roaring wall dark liquid bore down upon her. She pushed against the stones, loosening them and causing them to fall. On the other side she felt Spyro pulling her arm almost out of its socket.

She felt a rush of air and mist hit her back as she landed with an _oof_ on the other side. Spyro grunted something, and she realized she was kneeing his stomach and elbowing his neck.

They rose, shaking off dust and scuff. Behind them, water trickled through the rift. They followed Flash and Nina just a few dozen yards, around another corner, and finally saw a doorway sunken into the stone wall. They passed through the threshold.

They turned back to see the mist still bellowing behind them; the water would most certainly follow.

On either side of the door were wheels, which both of them took very quickly. Their front talons ran across the wheels with urgent speed and the door began to close. With an ancient protest it finally closed, and the fog was trapped behind.

Spyro leaned against the wall, and Cynder came and rested beside him.

"What happened in there?" He asked amid heavy breaths.

Cynder looked at her ankle, absent of its shackle. "I—I'll explain it later," she resolved.

"How later? It seems like that's an important thing to know _now_."

"I don't know _how _to explain it, Spyro!" She admitted, slamming her hand on the ground. "There was a voice and…look, let's just get to the Dragon City."

Spyro eyed her.

She blinked, and relaxed her angry expression. "Please?"

"Now don't you two be having a quarrel." Nina fluttered to Spyro. "It's important you two be _honest_ with each other."

"Yeah _Spyro _you shouldn't lie…" Cynder muttered.

"What—mom—but I—"

"Now, dear, apologize to Cynder. After all, she helped us get out of the really creepy tunnel."

Spyro's lips rested ajar, and finally he shook his head. "I'm…sorry…" He said haphazardly.

Cynder leaned close, brushing his cheek, "I'm sorry too," she whispered.

Spyro righted to his feet. He took on a tone of reverence; "Three years," he said, stepping forward, "Can you believe it's been three years, Cynder?"

She darted in front of him. "Spyro I don't think we should stop. It's still quite a ways to the City and…"

Spyro tried to pass her, but she blocked his path. "What's up with you Cynder?" He tried again; she blocked him, pushing him back with her shoulder. "Would you _stop_ it?"

She glanced back for just a second, and looked back at him. "Spyro…I don't know if you want to see the Temple right now."

"What do you mean?"

"Nina, stay away from that stuff," Flash's voice came from the distance.

Spyro finally slipped by Cynder—and froze.

The four great walls that stood tall and strong, accented by the towers that rose into the clouds at each corner. The gently rippling pools of water, where Dragons with gifted vision could glimpse the future—where he had once glimpsed the future. The grand statues cut from the stone, sculpted to the likeness of the Dragons, as well as the centerpiece statue that stood almost taller than the terraces that surrounded it. The bright forest that surrounded the Temple, glowing earthly colors both night and day.

All was just a memory now.

Spyro balked at the festering gash in the earth where the temple had once stood. Rivers of the dark liquid spilled into the giant hole that now tore into the ground. The liquid pooled in the deep bottom of the chasm, where it seemed to fester and boil. The once grand centerpiece statue could be seen in the liquid; the stone dragon's maw was affixed with permanent agony.

"I hoped that this place would have returned to normal after Malefor was defeated," Cynder said softly, and met Spyro's eyes as he tore them from the scene to look at her. "I hoped you wouldn't have to see something like this." She stepped up to him, laying a hand on his. "It must feel like losing home to you."

"Mom, dad," Spyro said dryly. "Let's go."

Even before they looked over to their son, he was already up into the air. They met Cynder's eyes instead, and she nodded, stepping toward them. They held onto her as she gently lifted to the air, following Spyro's wake.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 5**

The sun was unbearably bright as the travelers flew high above the land, near the Valley of Avalar. The land disappeared as they drifted through stratus clouds, breathing in the cool air. The world, it seemed, was well back to normal, albeit the dark waters.

"That river over there in the east, that's Valley of Avalar," Spyro spoke to his parents, who had never seen anything beyond the swamp; "Where the Cheetah live, along with the Fox and Wolf."

"It's beautiful," Nina said breathlessly.

"I wish that you could see it up close," Cynder said, "I'm sure we'll be able to soon—we have to check on Hunter's tribe after all."

"Hunter—the one who helped you two escape from the catacombs?" Flash shouted.

"Yes," Cynder replied, "Without his help the golem would have probably swatted us like flies—no offense."

"And what is that over there?" Nina asked, pointing several miles in the distance.

A glint of light caught Spyro's eye just above the summit of the mountain range surrounding the Valley. "That is Warfang," he replied with clarity.

Warfang was surrounded by a mountain range in the shape of a giant _V_. Dragon City, also called Warfang from the province in which it stood, was nestled in the mountainside, close to the convergence. One side of Dragon City was left open, facing out toward Warfang Desert.

The Desert itself stretched for several hundred miles, and every mile was more desolate and hot than the last. At the far end of the Desert a mountain range marked the end of the desert and the start of what was once the Tempest Sea. Beyond the sea, where once there stood a brilliant rainforest that shined like a blanket of gold in the rising sun, was the charred remains left by the Belt of Fire; the Burned Lands.

As their eyes gazed to the fog that covered the black plains in the distance, it felt to the Dragons like just yesterday the City was held siege by Malefor's forces.

Snuggled against the mountainside, Dragon City stood as tall and robust as gem in the blackest coal. Its gilded walls threw the sunlight back into the air as if to challenge the celestial fire's brightness and majesty. Dozens of dragon statues decorated in silver and golden leaf stood guard about the ramparts of the fortress.

Yet just as glorious and vibrant as the City stood, it also possessed deep wounds. Destroyed towers and buildings, rubble, and fires yet controlled marked the tragedy of the siege that challenged the haven. Even at their distance, the Dragons could see the bustle and urgency of the inhabitants moving about in the streets.

Cynder remembered the horrible attack, and felt a rush of anxiety as she recalled the Golem's appearance just as the battle was swinging to their favor. She could still hear the shouts and screams of the panicking citizens as it rose out of the ground, striking with fierce and immediate wrath.

She shivered, shaking the memory away.

"No, no, no that's all wrong!"

Sparx fluttered about, round and round a developing slab of stone. "Look at me, I'm so tiny. I can't even see myself. And Spyro—he looks a little _too _heroic. I mean, I'm all for it and everything but you gotta remember _I helped too_."

"But _monsieur_, I am sculpting it to your exact request…"

"Well—I dunno—can you do it again?"

The Mole scratched his head, adjusting his glasses with a sigh.

"I suppose I can try…"

"Good," Sparx said with a nod and a buzz of his wings, "Cuz I want to throw a celebration for my brother. After all, he did risk his life to save the world—with my help." Sparx put a hand to his brow and looked up at the sky. "I just hope we can get it done in time before he's—"

Against the gleaming sky, the Dragons glided as if from the heavens and gently landed side-by-side upon the ground.

"Here…!"

"Sparx!" Spyro called, rushing to his brother.

"Spyro! I _knew _you'd be back soon; everyone was all like _'where'd he go?'_ but I was like _'Don't worry he'll be here'_." Sparx sat upon his brother's nose. "So how you been?"

"Same old Sparx," Spyro said, shaking him off his snout. "I brought a couple of people you might want to meet," he said as Cynder stepped beside them, Nina and Flash accompanying her.

"Mom? _Dad?_" Sparx's words became melodramatically teary. "Is that really you?"

"My baby boy!"

"We sure missed you son," The family embraced together, a tangle of wings and arms. "Your voice isn't quite how I remember it though…"

"I blame that on all the magic and voo-doo—wait how can you tell? I thought this was a story. Unless…does it come with audio?"

"Excuse me, _monsieur_, would you please sign this?" The artisan requested, handing Sparx a piece of paper.

"You're…making a statue?" Spyro asked.

"Well…it was gonna be a surprise…"

"How come I'm not in it?"

Sparx looked to Cynder. "Oh… it's you…" He muttered, a little nervously. "Wait a minute," he turned to his parents, "Why were you travelling with _her_?" He pointed at Cynder with almost a quivering finger.

"What's wrong dear?" His mother asked, "Cynder is a nice young Dragon. She helped us get through the creepy tunnel the other night."

"Creepy tunnel? What're you doing taking my folks through creepy tunnels?"

"Is there something wrong, son?" Flash asked.

"Wrong?" Sparx said with surprise, "Have you ever heard of the _Black Dragon_?"

Spyro's head sank. "Oh no…"

"Well of course we have, dear. Your brother told us _all _about it. Such an awful Dragon too."

"Did he also happen to mention that the Black Dragon is _standing right behind you_?"

They turned to where Cynder was, but she was gone.

"Spyro, you did tell them ri—Spyro?"

He was gone as well, chasing after Cynder in the air.

He struggled to keep up with her, having trouble trailing her as she disrupted the wind in front of him. He finally managed to reach out and grabbed hold of her tail.

"Cynder, wait," he shouted.

She turned around, and pressed her feet against his shoulder, pushing him back. He let go of her tail, treading the air as she turned to fly away. A moment later she stopped, and her limbs drooped as she turned around and slowly drifted back to him.

He extended his arms, and held her comfortingly as they gently fell back to the ground. "Sparx has a big mouth, doesn't he?"

Cynder stifled a growl. "It wouldn't be so bad if you had just told them the truth to begin with." She looked up at him, and then past his shoulder. "Speak of the devils…"

"Spyro," Flash's voice said with paternal sternness, "I think you have some explaining to do…"

"How could you lie to us? We didn't raise you to deceive people, let alone your own _parents_. How much of your story can we trust? It's scary to think that you're running around with such an evil creature as the _Black Dragon_—"

"Mom I—"

"Mrs. Nina, please calm down."

Cynder's voice sounded more like a pleading question than anything else; it caught them so off guard that Nina visibly balked in the air.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry. I don't mean to call you evil; I don't know what came over me…"

"It's all right," Cynder replied calmly. "It's true; I am the Dark Dragon—"

"You _were _the Dark Dragon," Spyro interjected sternly.

"Am-was—what does it matter? I still did things I'm not proud of—things I regret." She took in a breath. "The _real _story is I was under Malefor's dark influence. I was about to release Malefor back into this world, but Spyro interfered. He bested me—defeated me—and in doing so released me from Malefor's spell." She paused, and scratched at the ground with her talon. "Instead of leaving me in Convexity, the realm between this world and where Malefor was, he spared me and took me with him back to the Temple."

"Shoulda left ya," Sparx muttered.

"That's the real truth," Cynder concluded, "Everything after that is pretty much as Spyro said; honest."

There was a moment of silence as the parents' demeanor relaxed. Finally, with a sigh, Flash spoke in his fatherly tone, crossing his arms.

"That still doesn't excuse Spyro of lying to us."

Spyro's head sunk.

"I'm afraid that's also my fault," Cynder spoke, "I was afraid you wouldn't like me if you knew who I really was. I asked him not to tell you—he didn't want to at first but I pressured him."

"No, dear, we'd like you all the same," Nina said, brushing her hand across Cynder's face, primping her scales. "We know that people can change even if they're controlled by dark, malevolent forces."

"Well, except Sparx."

"Ouch, dad. That was cold…"

Flash laughed, putting an arm across Sparx's back. "Come on, Sparx. Let's leave your brother alone for a while. Your mother and I want to hear the story from _you_ this time."

"You bet!" They turned and began to fly off, Nina following behind. Sparx's voice trailed off in the distance, "All right so there I was, all alone surrounded by twenty—no _fifty_—fifty Orcs…"

Spyro blinked as he raised his head, gazing sheepishly at Cynder.

"You owe me one," she said.

"Technically you lied," he muttered.

"Technically I saved your purple _butt _from getting yelled at." She smirked, "Much as I would have enjoyed watching you getting yourself handed to by people who are not even the size of your hand—no offense to them—I decided against it."

He sighed, staggering slowly to a shaded pool of clear, flowing water.

"You look horribly tired," Cynder said sympathetically as she walked beside him.

"I'm not tired, just…"

"Exhausted?" She finished.

"Yeah…"

She chuckled, forcing his head down with her hand. "Come on, we've been on the run for four—five days?—and you've slept…" She thought for a moment, "Have you even slept _at all_?"

"I dunno." He replied passively, closing his eyes.

She moved her hand across his scalp to his back and rubbed the small of his wings. A satisfied sigh emitted from his nostrils. She watched as the Moles busily hurried by, paying little attention to them, if any at all. It seemed odd that their arrival was so subtle; so silent. But after a moment's thought, and looking down at Spyro, she decided it was probably better that way.

"Are you still with us?" She asked, gently shaking his shoulder.

"I'm here," he said clearly, and began to stretch his neck.

"I gave it thought while we were arriving, and I owe you an explanation."

He sat up, yawning and scratching his stomach. "What explanation?—remind me."

"The Black Dragon," she recited, closing her eyes.

"Wh—?"

"My name is Cynder." She said, speaking from memory. Spyro listened. "Call yourself what you will; you are still a slave to the Darkness_._" She opened her eyes, examining the concerned expression on Spyro's lips. "That's what the voice said."

"Slave to the Darkness?" He repeated, and then looked down at her feet.

She lifted her right hand, displaying the crystal shackle. "That seems to explain these."

"Why, though? Who was speaking to you?"

"I dunno," she said, shaking her head. "All he said was that I had to 'prove myself' to the world; I have to start making for my past."

"What do you mean 'making up for your past'?"

"Oh I dunno," she said, rolling her eyes as she spoke, "Maybe sometime between when I was born and when you came along I made an itty-bitty mistake or two…"

"All right, I get it," he mumbled. "Where should we start?"

"I don't know if I'd exactly trust this voice, Spyro."

"I don't." He said bluntly, "But I also hate the sight of those things on your ankles."

"Oh but dear, don't you think they bring out my eyes?" She batted her lashes at him.

He shook his head. "This isn't a joke. Whatever those are, they can't be good. We should get them off as quickly as possible."

"_After_ you rest, it's been one danger after another and we need a brea—"

Her sentence cut short as a thunderous rumble rolled through the earth. They stood alertly, their senses on edge. They turned around, and behind them loomed a giant figure, its features blackened by the glare of the blazing sun above its head.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 6**

The sun glared brightly behind the giant figure standing before them. His leathery scales boasted dozens of scars, each one tallying a victorious battle. Underneath the scored exterior was a battle-toned physique of muscle hard as stone, and weighing as much as a mountain. His eyes were jaded from witnessing the infernos of war, and yet they beheld the gentlest shimmer.

Terrador bowed his head. "Welcome home, young heroes." His reverent voice made the air stand with attention.

"It's good to be home, Terrador," Spyro said, bowing his head as well.

"I am sorry there is little appreciation to your arrival; we feel it is best to discourage drawing attention to you and Cynder. Malefor may be defeated, but his forces are still organized."

"That reminds us," Cynder spoke, "We saw an enormous gathering of Wyverns heading in this direction two or three days ago. We feared they were heading for the City."

"I know of their advance. They did not stop at the City; they veered around it, heading farther to the east. We are trying to discern what they are doing."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Spyro asked.

Terrador's jaw unhinged just a bit, and then he began to laugh. "You…you two are something else…" He shook his head, "Please, you have done _more _than enough for us already; more than we could have ever dreamed. The other Guardians and I shall take over from here—you have earned a generous respite."

He chuckled once more, and then a forlorn look fell upon his face. "Ignitus—he will not return, will he?"

Spyro looked down, and a barely audible voice escaped him. "No."

"I see. We will honor his memory, when times are peaceful again. Until then, I offer my deepest condolences."

"Thank you Terrador," Cynder spoke for Spyro.

The great warlord sighed, as if contemplating something. Finally he spoke; "May I ask a favor of you, Spyro?"

"Of course," he said, regaining his voice. "What is it?"

"Please, come with me," he beckoned, his hulk rising with a show of shifting tendons and rippling sinew. They followed him down the street as he explained; "Two days ago, a badly wounded messenger arrived. He spoke of a dire request, but only wishes to speak with the Shrine God."

"Shrine God?" Cynder repeated, looking sideways at Terrador.

"Yes. He is terribly wounded, so please be mindful of your voices and your actions." They stopped in front of an infirmary, signified by a red crystal in the form of a three-pointed star. "I must be on my way. Cyril needs help with the City's reconstruction."

"Thank you Terrador, I'll take it from here."

The great Dragon nodded, and turned once more, continuing down the street.

"Since when were you a 'Shrine God'?" Cynder asked.

"Does the Atlawa tribe ring a bell?"

Cynder's face became grim. "Yes. Yes it does." She took in a breath. "I think…I think I'll wait out here, if that's okay."

"Of course," he said, rubbing her shoulder, "Besides, seeing me will excite him enough."

She nodded, and moved away from the window, sitting in front of the alleyway adjacent the building. Spyro laid his eyes on her for one concerned moment before he turned the knob and disappeared through the threshold.

"May I help you?" A Mole inquired upon his entry.

"I am here to speak with an Atlawan."

"I'm sorry, sir, but he only wishes to speak with the erm…'Shrine God'."

"Right," Spyro said insistently, "I'm here to speak with him."

The Mole sniffed the air, grumbling to himself for a moment. "All right then, I guess. Follow me, please."

Spyro followed the doctor into a narrow hallway barely wide enough for his body; his wings scratched along the wood, despite his efforts to compact them. The rooms were close together, two beds in each one. It was clear the City may have been made in honor of the Dragons, but the buildings were made for the Manweersmall.

"Excuse me, sir?" The Mole poked his head into the room. There was a moment of silence before the Mole retracted back into the hallway, "It seems he's asleep."

"I can wait 'till he wakes up," Spyro whispered.

The doctor glanced back into the room, hesitant to allow the Dragon to wait on a sleeping patient, but ultimately gave up and stepped aside, gesturing his arms for the Dragon to enter.

Softly were Spyro's steps as he shuffled and squeezed through the door. He went to the side of the bed, and nodded toward the doctor, who turned with a worried glance to walk back down the hall.

As Spyro waited he swept the room. It was bare of most furnishings, save for a table with a few instruments and a clock against the back wall that _ticked _and _tocked_.

The table piqued his curiosity. Upon it, displayed from left to right was a small funnel, a small wooden palette with several beveled cups, a scale and very small beads of lead, various measuring spoons, and a large mortar and pestle made of black-and-blue speckled stone.

Spyro flinched as the Atlawan clutched his forearm. He looked to the goatish man, who coughed weakly as his eyes slowly pried open, fixated upon his own. "You…Shrine God…"

Spyro held his gaze for a moment, and then calmly spoke, "Do you know Kane?"

A fit of coughing, "Kane…and I…"

"Please, relax," Spyro said quietly, returning the Atlawa's trembling hand to rest across his chest.

"My name is Roth...Kane is…my friend."

"Roth," Spyro repeated, stepping closer to the bed, "What do you want to speak with me about?"

"Kane is dead." He said solemnly. "And I glimpsed it myself, see?" Roth parted his mane, and across the side of his neck was a horrific scratch. It seemed infected; a dark residue festered in the grooves of the wound.

"What happened?"

"My tribe is in danger. Many were lost before hiding underground—before the Specters came."

"The Specters?"

"Like shadows they come in the night, hissing and chanting. Dozens; emerging from the Dark Pools. I have come to appease you, Shrine God. What have we done, that you would send this evil upon us?"

Spyro balked. "Me? No Roth, I have nothing to do with these creatures."

"Then why do they hunt us?" He sat up, "Has the Black Dragon returned?"

"No!" Spyro shouted defensively.

Roth seemed to frighten.

"I mean, no. It isn't Cyn—the Black Dragon. These creatures—these Dark Pools—they're not just in your home."

"Then…we are doomed." Roth fell back into the bed, hands massaging his cheeks.

"No Roth," Spyro said with resolution, "I will go to the Tall Plains and help your people."

The Atlawan peeked through his fingers. "You will help us?"

Spyro nodded.

"Thank you." The Atlawan rested his hands upon his chest. "Tell my people…I am sorry…"

The wind from Spyro's wings sent the trinkets on the table crashing to the floor as they erected in surprise. "Help! I need help in here!"

The Mole quickly scampered into the room, brushing past Spyro and inspecting the Atlawan carefully. He searched upon the ground, retrieving the small funnel. He turned the small end to his ear and placed the mouth onto the Atlawa's chest. After several moments, the doctor lifted his head and sighed, cleaning the small end of the funnel.

"Is he—?"

"Resting. He is just excited. I'm afraid it's time for you to go."

"So uh…read any good books lately?...Watched any good movies?...Deceive anyone important?"

"I'm not like that anymore Sparx," Cynder said irritably.

"Not like what?—Oh look, here he comes!"

Spyro emerged from the building, a sullen expression upon him. Sparx, who had arrived a few moments ago, eagerly flew up into his face.

"So Spyro, seeing as how you're back and all, I was planning this really neat party and celebration to honor you and me—well, mostly me—maybe uh…her," he cleared his throat, "But I wanted your opinion; do you like Avalar-Corn cake, or Burned Choclate?"

"Sparx…there's no party."

"Oh no Spyro, there's a party." He threw his arms in a starburst, "Huge! Everyone will be there," he shielded his mouth with his hand, "Everyone important anyway—"

"We can't have a party, Sparx. Besides, I'm leaving."

The dragonfly fluttered backward in surprise. "Leaving? But—but you just _got _here!"

"There're still dangerous creatures out there—creatures I have to stop."

"Oh come on, Spyro, can't Terrador handle it? He's mopping up Malefor's mess."

"Terrador is spread too thinly. We're on our own on this one."

Sparx's hands dropped to his sides; he hung motionless in the air for a second. "Spyro…I dunno if I can go with you on this one…I haven't seen mom and dad in so long…"

"Sparx can you do me a favor?" He waited for the dragonfly's nod. "Protect mom and dad. I can't ignore those who need my help, but I also can't leave our parents unprotected or with someone they don't trust."

"You know I'll go with you if you—"

"I'd rather you stayed with them. Besides, I don't exactly know what I'm up against. We've never seen these creatures before, and they're ruthless. You could get hurt, even if you're careful."

The dragonfly sighed, a mix of relief and worry in his posture.

"When I come back, can we have the party?" Spyro asked cheerfully.

It seemed to have the desired effect; Sparx relit with energy. "You bet! It'll be huge, even bigger than the one I had planned before."

"Good. Burned Chocolate."

"What?" Sparx hung in the air for a moment, and then nodded. "Oh, right. You got it!" He flew close to his brother's nose, and set his hand upon it. "Good luck, little bro."

"Thanks," and Spyro's eyes flashed, "wait, I hatched first."

"That's debatable," Sparx said, already a few feet away, "Later!" In a few seconds he melded with the glare of the street.

Cynder quietly stepped up to Spyro's side. "No rest for the weary," she said.

"I'll be going to the Tall Plains," he stated, "From speaking with the Atlawan inside, they still fear and hate the Black Dragon."

"Then maybe it's time the Black Dragon started making up for her mistakes." She lifted a shackled hand before her, clenching it in a fist. It gleamed with the sunlight, reflecting in it her face, shrunken and distorted. "Let's see if that gets rid of a couple of these things."

Spyro took off into the air. "Then let's go," he said with renewed energy.

"Right behind you."


	7. Chapter 7

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 7**

Well past nightfall the Dragons arrived at Tall Plains, having stopped to rest on an island in the small ocean that cut through the two landmasses. Spyro did not have much luck with sleep despite the somnolence of the tide.

The Plains was actually a network of plateaus, interconnected with natural cave formations, as well as bridges of Atlawan craft. Within the caves was an entire world itself; of lakes and plants and—under the right mindset—a twinkling midnight sky. Between the plateaus, rolling fog concealed all but the very top of the forest canopy below. It lurked like a ghost, parting and gathering as the trees moved in the wind.

Cynder inhaled the glimmering light of the moon. The swaying grass tossed the bits the light helter-skelter as the wind inspired the blades to dance and whistle.

Spyro paid no attention to the majesty; gave it a moment's thought at best, before scanning the land with keen eyes.

There was no sign of life.

"Hello?" Spyro shouted. His voice carried endlessly in the wind, repeating itself continuously for an extended moment.

Cynder stepped closer to his side, the openness suddenly changing from an alluring dream to an ambuscade nightmare.

"Spyro, I think we should get into a cave," she suggested, concealing her desperation to get away from exposure.

"You're right. The Atlawa would have taken shelter in them if they were attacked—they have done that before."

He led the way to the nearest entrance.

The mouth of the cave was fixed in a perpetual scream. Both of them were relieved it was not sighing the tell-tale smoke of the creatures—the Specters. Spyro stepped in first, and Cynder followed, glancing behind one last time into the serene night.

The cave was very large. Most of them were to Spyro's memory. Both Dragons could walk side-by-side, wings fully outstretched, and still probably manage to keep almost a foot of space between them. It was not exactly clear if the caves were completely natural or if the Atlawa had modified them; perhaps a little of both.

Dragon eyes, although capable of seeing in the dark, are meant for navigating skies high above, not spelunking underground. Both of them stumbled quite often, from lack of the acute senses required for maneuvering constricted areas.

Cynder began to think this was not such a good idea after all; certainly now they were less exposed, but they had traded their agility and coordination. Combined with her lack of experience fighting the creatures—which Spyro had only done once—their position was unfavorable all around.

She smiled inwardly, despite. "If there's anything you ever wanted to tell me, now's the time."

"Stop it," Spyro scoffed.

"Just saying—what do we do if they surround us? You've fought them before."

"Not if. They _will_ surround us," Spyro began, "They'll attack in small numbers, one or two at a time; tag-team."

"Why hello Terrador, have you seen Spyro?"

"Keep your voice low."

"Sorry," she said sincerely, "I'm just—"

"Don't be scared. You'll be fine."

_I'll protect you_. Her thoughts spoke his unspoken words.

Cynder noticed a dull auburn glow far ahead. She followed cautiously as Spyro went toward it, glancing behind every other moment. The feeling from the chamber before the Temple crept back into her spine. She began confusing the darkness for the smoke, and began taking deep breaths to calm herself. The air was very stale to her tongue.

As they approached the dimmed light she warmed to its familiarity. A small gathering of red and green crystals sat against a rounded wall like a gathering at a campfire. They did not radiate much energy, but it was energy nonetheless.

"We should use them while we have the chance," Cynder said, stepping ahead of Spyro.

He stopped her with his arm. "It's a trap." He said, "Remember last time?"

She stepped back. "Jeez. Good call."

He began to approach the crystals. "Watch behind us."

"You _want _them to come?"

"Better we fight them while we're expecting them. We can turn the trap around."

"That's risky and dangerous," she mock-protested, "and I like it." She spun on her heels, snaking her body to face the direction from whence they came. Although, the anticipation was a little much; she found herself glancing back, watching his movement.

His hand, alit with a brownish sheen, paused as it floated forward. Spyro thought—which one? A series of quick scenarios ran through his head: the crystal broke before, if these did not would he want red in case Cynder was hurt, or green so he could utilize his magic?

His fingers gently curled around a red crystal, and he looked in the opposite direction as Cynder. He quietly counted, "Three…two…" The ground crumbled with a passive protest as he wrenched the crystal from its bedding. In one motion he twirled around and was directly behind his companion.

They listened to each other's breaths, scouting their side of the cave. Their eyes were so fixed that when they blinked the lines of the crystal's light against the wall were burned onto their lids. For an uncountable length of time they were poised, relentlessly alert. The air began to fog about them, condensing on the walls and dripping from the ceiling.

A drop of water fell on Cynder's cheek. Her nerves fired and her hand flew unbounded into blackness until it slammed into a stalagmite. She vocally winced and withdrew it, limp at the wrist.

Before she could blink, Spyro already had the crystal pressed against the wounded talon. It shimmered for a moment, and then went dim. She flexed her fingers, stretching out the stiffness of the sore muscles.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I was wrong."

"For once I'm glad you were," she said, her breaths still tight.

"Let's relax," he said, leading her to sit beside him by her shoulder, "we'll go on when we've calmed down more."

"It's getting hard to breathe," she said, clearing her throat, "the air's really heavy."

"That's just your nerves—"

"No, Spyro—something's weird. The air, do you taste it?"

Suddenly it hit him; his nostrils burned all the way to the back of his throat, and his eyes began to tear and throb. "We have to get out of here!" He took her shoulder and started to run back from where they came.

She stumbled behind him; he struggled to keep both of their balance while running at almost full speed. The air burned more; his throat began to close. He tripped.

Cynder felt Spyro's weight drop to the floor. She stepped over him, hooked her hands under his shoulders and tried to drag him. She began to shout with frustration, gasping for clean air as her legs began to lose feeling. She dropped him, her strength at a loss.

"That one is still awake."

She tried to focus into the darkness; the voice was muffled, and echoed in her burning head.

"The poison in her blood must make her resistant. But see—she is succumbing."

She tried to speak, but her throat willed no voice. She struggled to lift her head. She felt as though she were being tossed about in the waves of the sea, and pulled deep into its depths.

Her head throbbed as her eyes fell open. Her throat still stung, although the air was now open and cool. She glimpsed the sky, and saw an orange band creeping across the brim. She tried to stand—her limbs were tied.

She looked about more alertly; in the distance were figures shrouded mostly in the shadow. At her feet and a small distance away, a bed of coals emitted a constant stream of smoke. Some of the smoke wafted to her direction, and the familiar sting ran through her and lasted for a moment. As it subsided, she craned her neck, but she could not see Spyro.

"The Black Dragon stirs."

She looked to the blurred shadows; next to several, above and to the right, light glinted off of something silvery. "Who…are…?" The muscles of her jaw were very tight.

"Look how she tries to speak—tries to resist the dragonsbane."

"Be calm, she will not rise. She can barely speak. We are safe."

"The Other is still afflicted."

"The Other is with her. Let us torture him!"

"No…" Cynder fought the ropes, and finally found her voice, "Stay away from him!"

"Stay, stay," one of the voices seemed to stop another from stepping forward, "We cannot draw too near."

"Who are you?" She asked with forceful air.

"Silence Black Dragon. You know very well who we are." The rays of light began to illuminate the clouds. "After three years, did you think we would forget?"

"Forget?—What?"

The voice roared, "Have you forgotten what you have done to us?"

Against the ashen blue of the sky, a long tendril whistled through the air and collided against her shoulder. Pain reverberated through her body, and her heartbeat skipped. Despite her best efforts to stifle a yell, the surprise of it was too much.

As her breathing subsided, the sun began to rise far in the distance. Light illuminated the ground, sending long, golden rivers across the grass. But Cynder's eyes were fixed upon the figures in front of her. Their goatish faces were angry; every eye fixated upon her.

The most decorated Atlawan stepped forward, and repeated each of his words slowly; "Have you forgotten?"


	8. Chapter 8

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 8**

The Atlawan that stood in front of her, a careful distance away, was clearly the chief of the tribe. Of all the Atlawa he had the most feathers adorned on the leather arm and headbands that he wore. His hands idly clutched a whip made of vine.

Over a dozen others stood behind him, both men and women—even some children. Spears stood beside the men. The heavy stone heads glowed white in the sunlight; they were fletched upon long gnarled stems by tight coils of vine-rope.

Children hid behind their mothers, their fearful heads peeking out to see the Black Dragon. She was much less vicious than what their fathers described; much smaller too. But everyone seemed to fear the Black Dragon regardless of her size.

The chief began to pace, eyeing the Black Dragon. "You have done great harm to us." He said. "You terrorized our lands, forced us into the caves underground—made us fear for our lives every day."

The Black Dragon watched him silently; their eyes met. He tried to find the evil in her.

"Then we were saved by the Shrine God. Ever since, we have prepared for your inevitable return. You have corrupted the Shrine God, just as you have done before. You have sent a plague of demons across our lands. You have forced us to fend for our lives once again. We will not stand for it any longer!"

A furious but quick roar came from the men behind him.

"You're wrong—"

"Silence!" The whip cracked threateningly. She closed her eyes in fear, but the whipd id not hit. His taunts were working. She would feel the fear he felt as a boy, living in the caves. "You arrive shortly after the Black Rain that spawned the Dark Pools. The Dark Pools, from which the Specters have come, taking my people away into the night." He paused to let the air settle. "You expect us to believe that we are wrong? That you are not here to oppress us once again?"

"We came because of Roth," the Black Dragon said desperately, "he said you were in danger—that you needed our help."

He clenched his hand around the whip, and stared at the Black Dragon with rising hatred. "Kane and Roth betrayed the tribe and ventured into the forbidden forests. Whatever fate you have given them they deserved."

"No," the Black Dragon said, lifting her head, "it's the truth. Please, you have to listen," she struggled to stand despite their binds on her, "The Specters aren't just here, they're everywhere. Even if I _was_ the Black Dragon, I wouldn't have to power to—"

"You're lies will not be heard!"

He raised the whip again—this time was not a bluff. The Black Dragon closed her eyes, and he couldn't help but smilewith satisfaction as the whip uncurled in the air, like a hand to smite evil, and crashed down with a judgmental _crack!_

Cynder winced—this one would hit, she knew it. She braced for the tension, for the crush against her shoulder, for the crippling thunder of pain. She heard the crack and heard the grunt and felt her breath and heart spin—but she didn't feel the pain. She opened her eyes.

The sky was blocked by purple scales, amber wings and the steadfast stance of Spyro. "Stop hurting her," he hissed. "She hasn't done anything wrong."

The Atlawa visibly balked; Spyro must have surprised them by escaping from his binds. The chief stepped back, dropping the whip to the ground.

"Cynder is telling you the truth. I spoke with Roth myself."

She could not see his face, but the sound of his voice gave expression enough. He'd taken the hit fully.

A wisp of black smoke drifted on the ground behind the Atlawa. "Spyro…"

"They'll strike without mercy—"

"Everyone—" She remained unheard.

"If they come, it will be your fault, you and the Black Dra—"

"Cynder is _not _the Black Dragon!"

Cynder's voice echoed as her shout dominated the others. "They're coming!"

From behind the Atlawa, there came a thunderous roar of wind; the smoke rushed up like consummating fire, blocking the sun and casting a dark shadow across the grass. The Atlawan children began to scream and the men barked and yelled.

Cynder felt the heat of Spyro's breath around her wrists and ankles, burning the binds that immobilized her. "We have to get them into the caves," she said.

"Right," he replied, as a resounding hiss pierced through the fog. "Stay together."

The two Dragons ran between the Atlawa; they stared in a mix of fright and awe. Between the Dragons and the edge of the plateau, cloaked shadows began rising from behind the earth.

"Everyone," Spyro said, "We'll fend them off, head toward the caves." he charged forward, barreling into the fray of Specters, two-dozen and counting.

"It's a trap! Do not move, we are dead if we trust them."

"You're _more _dead if you stay out here!" Cynder shouted, chasing after Spyro. She watched as he dodged a tag-team. She intercepted one of the attackers for him, catching it by the leg and whirling it into the air.

"Keep moving, we have to work together,"

"There's way too many—and more are coming,"

The creatures began to swarm, leaping and scuttling, always attacking from the sides or from the rear. It was all they could do to barely keep up as the creatures grew into the thirties.

Cynder began to lose her focus; a Specter caught her tail and she fell. Two more leapt upon her, scratching at her neck and side. Spyro swatted the one on her neck; she managed to clutch the one on her side by the throat. She kept it in her grasp, despite its claws scratching at her wrist.

Another leapt at Spyro; she shielded him, thrusting the flailing prisoner in her hand. It hissed with pain as its dark comrade clawed into its back. Cynder slammed her hand into the ground, sending both into a puff of smoke.

Three more attacked simultaneously, one from the ground and two from the air. Spyro jumped as Cynder rolled under him; he caught the two in the air and threw them back toward the mass; her hind-talon met the other creature, sending him barreling back over the edge of the plateau.

"We're starting to push them back," Spyro panted.

Cynder looked toward the Atlawa; they had not moved. "What are you _doing_?" She shouted angrily. "Are you waiting for an _invitation_? Get in the caves!"

"Black Dragon, we cannot. We are all surrounded."

Cynder looked beyond the chief to see the wrapped white faces of Specters amassed on the other side of the tribe. They taunted and hissed them. There were thirty at least.

Cynder's adrenaline fell, and her neck began to sag with the weight of her head. They were surrounded. "Spyro…"

"Cynder, can you handle yourself?"

In the silence between the creatures' susurration, she hesitantly nodded. "There's no other way. Good luck."

Spyro nodded, and leapt over the crowd of Atlawa to the other side. The creatures hissed hungrily as Spyro and Cynder paced back and forth, buffering them from the Atlawa. The tribe inside began to murmur in confusion, but Cynder did not hear any words; her blood boiled as the creatures poised, and three of them leapt toward her.

She tried to jump but the first one clung onto her wing, carrying her downward. The second creature landed on her head, forcing her jaw into the dirt. Another leapt upon her stomach, followed by a second. Three more began tugging at her hind legs and another began yanking on her other wing.

She struggled, but they continued to pin her down, their strength and weight incredible despite their small size. She felt a dozen scratches like tiny knives cutting into her scales—until one was gone. Then another, and another; their presence strategically disappeared, just enough for her to attack.

She curled inward violently, her forehead colliding with two of the Specters causing them to yelp with pain. She managed to roll over, reversing the pin. They began to scratch at her belly, but she quickly took them out one by one. Almost immediately four or five—maybe six, she couldn't tell—jumped on her back. She ignored the claws that dug painfully into her scales, and leapt up into the air, positioning to slam flat on her back.

Spyro faired better at first; his talon tore through two before one clung to his swinging arm. Another tried to hold his tail down, but he threw the creature off into the distance. He glanced toward Cynder's fight and saw she was covered in a growing mass of Specters; he was about to rush to her aid when three Atlawan spears whistled through the air, cutting the one at her head, as well as the ones tugging on her right arm and wing.

As he watched her recover, bony hands clasped his neck and the creature began biting him. He winced with pain and threw it down; it recoiled into the air before it evaporated. Four more leapt at him in succession and at an arcing angle, too quick for him to do anything but rear up and block; the first two were parried but the third and last slashed across his stomach. Another three slashes, this time behind his knees. They buckled, and slammed onto the ground.

The Atlawan chief saw a break in the chain; the creatures were more focused on the Dragons than his tribe. He hesitated for a moment, and was glad he did when the Black Dragon was visibly devoured by them. He ordered three of his spears to strike so the Dragon could recover.

"But Tyr—"

"Do as I say, her head, right hand and right wing; we will give her a fighting chance, no more."

Reluctantly his men obeyed, their spears guided with expert precision. The creatures were felled, and the Black Dragon managed to recover. However, his fear was realized. The creatures began noticing them—noticing they were a threat. There was no other option. Despite the danger, they had to get into the caves.

"We must trust in the Dragons. Into the caves."

There was no protest; three of his spearmen went first to seize the cave. Once inside the cave was checked, and one sent him a signal it was clear—for now. He ordered two men to take women and children into the cave; he led his own partition.

The stretch of land before the cave was at length two dozen yards, and far too open. As he ran behind the mother, father and children he took with him, the fear of what could be lurking under the threshold of their risen land was very real.

But fortune smiled upon him. Once his group was inside the cave, he turned and stepped toward the entrance, out into the dangerous land once more—when a hand stopped him.

"You will stay," one of his men ordered, "I will go."

Hesitantly the chief nodded, and the spearman dashed into the fog.

Despite the raging fight, his men had relatively little trouble getting into the cave. He once again looked at the Dragons; the Black Dragon's side was down to a handful. The Shrine God was not so fortunate…

A single spearman was left with the last woman and her child; he ushered to them quickly and began leading them to the cave. The child was frightened, and at first did not want to go. The mother finally coaxed her daughter, leading her by the hand. Halfway into the stretch, the chief's fear was realized: six creatures leapt up from the edge of the plateau.

The spearman struck one, then another. Three more took each felled Specter's place—and more were coming; a second wave. The chief watched in despair; the child ran back toward the Dragons, her scream terrified and muffled in the thick air. The spearman managed to break through and forcibly half-dragged the woman into the cave, arguing with her all the way.

"My baby!"

"Nothing can be done!"

Yet something _could _be done. The chief looked out from his shelter; the young girl cowered, stepping back as a dozen Specters neared her very quickly, blocking his view of her. Even if he left the cave now at full speed he would not catch up to save her. He looked out to the Dragons.

The Shrine God was covered in perhaps ten or fifteen, a mound of Specters so chaotic and alive that only his legs and ends of his wings were visible. He was not moving.

But the Black Dragon—she stood without opposition. She glanced between the girl and her companion.

Even at this distance, the chief could see the dilemma in her mind—whichever one she saved, the other would surely be lost.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 9**

Cynder's back throbbed for just a moment after colliding with the ground, but the maneuver stunned the creatures effectively. They dispersed, except for one who did not make it, and quickly rebounded in a counterattack. She whisked her body through their numbers, and as she did it seemed like time began to slow.

One flew past her; she watched as it did, and reflexively her tail lashed up. Its throat was pierced, and then it fell limply to the ground, rolling with momentum before it dissipated. Just ten more remained.

Two struck in pincer fashion, she ducked and they slammed together. Another ran toward her head; she lowered it and it landed on her back, but ran across her body and jumped off, pulling on her tail. Then another scuttled underneath her, and ran its claws under her throat as it passed. She hissed with pain.

She tried to get the one at her tail off but its grip was ferocious. Then another gripped her tail; she looked behind her, and then her throat burned with pain again as she glimpsed a demon strafing away. She became very angry, and leapt into the air. The two that hung on her tail held fast, and then several more began clumping onto them.

Rather quickly a ball of hiss and smoke began climbing up her tail. She huffed and tried to kick them off but they seized both of her legs. Angrily she began swiping at them, but they dodged and then leapt onto her face. She yelled as one began to scratch her cheeks; she clamped her jaws around its wandering hand, and it detached toward the earth.

The others hissed, and a few began leaping onto her wings. The weight was overbearing and she once again tumbled to the ground, but this time she was expecting it. As she collided with the earth, she allowed her body to recoil with controlled force. The creatures were helpless as she righted herself, throwing them off.

They tried to rebound again, but this time she took the offensive; before they could leap, her claws dug into the earth and she launched, piercing two with her talons as she passed the group, and scraping one with her tail. It hissed in pain but did not go away.

She tossed the two creatures in her hand over the plateau's edge and dashed back to the others—seven left. She flew straight; they poised, ready to jump her. She swerved left; they hissed with dissatisfaction. When she landed they ran toward her in a straight clump—perfect.

She ran as well, straight to the middle. They began to spread on both sides, ready to surround her once again—not this time. At last minute, just as they broke their formation, she darted left, throwing her weight into the mass. They hissed as she tumbled into them, slamming each one into the ground at least once. Some of them even held onto her, only to be crushed under her rolling weight.

Three were left. They tried one last attack. She allowed them to surround her, to leap onto her. She laughed as they clawed at the back of her neck, her arm and her leg. Two were felled by her hands. The one at her feet felt her tail play into the back of its head. She did not even look as the smoke at her feet began to disappear.

She looked to Spyro, and felt terror.

The entire time he was a tangled mess of the things. They were on top of him, scraping him, biting him. She gritted her teeth, ready to strike them, but then heard a scream. She looked to her left from where it had come; a little Atlawan girl cowered before more than a dozen more creatures.

She looked back at Spyro, and then back to the girl—the creatures were closing in slowly like hyenas to the prey.

She was left with a horrible choice. She could save Spyro, but it would take time and the girl would be jumped; or she could save the girl, but Spyro would not last long enough if he was not helped right away.

She closed her eyes tears beginning to well.

_What would Spyro do?_

She fixed her face with resolve, glaring forward. Before she could object, impulse took over. The choice was obvious. Spyro would do the same for her, she knew.

The little Atlawan let out one final scream, and felt a claw wrap around her. She began to sob with fear and convulse with dread. Wind rushed about. Her heart leapt to her throat. She did not dare open her eyes. There were whispers around her, like angry ghosts. She felt cold, so terribly cold.

"It's all right, little one," She heard a gentle voice speak.

With every ounce of her nerves she bit her tongue and opened her eyes, and found that she was in darkness. She peeked down at the hand wrapped around her—it was a black talon. She looked up, and met the Black Dragon's eyes. The Dragon's face was very scary, hooked and narrow like the beak of a crow. Yet she was smiling, her gaze soft and gentle.

The Atlawan felt a comforting squeeze. Then there was a bright light—

Cynder clutched the girl in her hand and with the last of her strength drew upon the most hated of her powers. She melded into the shadows, becoming one with them—one _of_ them—carrying the little girl with her into the darkness.

"It's all right, little one."

Just as quickly as she fell into its grasp, Cynder broke free of the shadow; a violent act that distorted the world around her. The creatures that had gathered flew up with her into the air, and she began to spin. As she did, she shielded the little girl's eyes with her wings.

A torrent of evil voices whispered, remnant ghosts that hid within the shadows; even Cynder found their chatter unnerving. As the Specters spun in her trap, her shadow began to cut them down almost all at once. They hissed and screamed, their voices a complement to the hushed shouts and wails.

Such pitiful creatures; if they were her own they would not be so weak.

Cynder shook her head—the effects of her powers were getting to her. She dissipated the magic, and it left with a fleeting, panicked scream. She held the girl tightly as she gently landed on the earth. She let the girl's feet onto the ground, and before she could stare at Spyro, the girl briefly hugged her. She froze at the gesture.

"_Charge!_" She heard the command emanate from the cave, "Now is our chance to kill the beasts!"

Cynder looked toward the voice and as she did a dozen spears whistled through the air. She did not blink or move; the spears hissed past, and landed somewhere behind her. Cries of pain and agony wafted through the air, along with a thick wave of black smoke. Then stillness.

The girl slowly stepped away, gazing at Cynder one last moment before turning to run back to her mother. They reunited with tears and warbling words. The tribe looked on as the Black Dragon rushed to her companion.

Cynder's eyes began to water.

Spyro's body was scored; hundreds of weeping lacerations covered him from head to toe. His head was limp and his tongue sprawled from his parted jaw. His limbs were splayed, and the only sign of motion was his right hind-talon as it twitched…twitched...

She looked up. The Atlawa surrounded her. "Please," she begged, "I have to get him help. I need to take him to the Dragon City." She laid her hand upon his chest; it neither rose nor fell. "We'll leave you alone, I promise. You'll never see my face _ever_ again."

The chief stepped forward. He met her eyes. They shimmered and allowed small trails of tears. The chief sighed. "You will not leave."

Cynder closed her eyes and began to clench her fist. Her arm trembled in anger and frustration. "_Fine!_" She yelled, cutting the air with her voice and talon, "Do whatever you want to me, I don't care!" She stepped in front of her companion and glared toward the chief. "You want the Black Dragon—you _have _me."

She closed her eyes, and pleaded softly. "Just help him."

She heard a yell, and thunderous footfalls. She braced herself for whatever was to come—but the yell as muted, and a heavy mass slammed onto the ground with a muffled crash. She opened her eyes to see the chief clutching a spear he did not originally have. He threw it aside, and his hand viciously grasped the back of the neck of an Atlawan lying face-down in the dirt.

The chief lifted him; he blinked, his body swaying unbalanced. "That is _not _what I meant," the chief stated, and wrenched his arm backward. Two of the Atlawa caught the dazed and stumbling man before he could fall backward.

"I will speak more clearly." The chief said, and took something from a sack at his hip. "You will not leave, _until_ you are fed and well rested." His hand whisked forward, and something glittered as it arced across the sky.

Instinctively Cynder outstretched her hand, and as she opened her palm a small red crystal sang into her grasp.

"Will that be enough?"

She looked at it for a moment, then with the action of a thirsted man upon fresh water, pressed the crystal against her companion's chest. It glowed brightly, and some of the blood that trickled forth began to calm and recede back into their wounds.

But too quickly, the crystal's aura faded without even a sigh.

She began to weep. She did not feel the shackle on her right ankle crack and break. She did not give notice to a gentle thud upon the ground beside her, followed by another, and another, and two more still in succession. She laid her head upon his chest, stroked his cheek and held his hand.

"Escoos me," came a meek voice "Cymber?"

Cynder sniffed, failing to stifle her tears. She opened her eyes to see the little girl, blurry hands outstretched. Between her fingers, a red crystal glinted. Around her feet winked five more. Cynder looked wearily up at the Atlawa around her; each one held in their hand a shard of red-hued sunlight. She looked back as the little girl rose up on her toes and pushed her hands forward insistently while she turned one eye shyly away.

"Will _diss _be anuff?"


	10. Chapter 10

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 10**

Spyro groaned with satisfaction; his stomach had never felt so full. Although the meat was very strange and it seemed to burn with black smoke as it was cooked, no one questioned what it was; they simply ignored it and ate.

The Dragons ate with the chief in a private cave. From the entrance, between two goatish men holding spears, the rose-colored sky began to melt as the sun ebbed closer to the horizon.

Inside the cave, a wall of red and green crystals quietly sparkled. As it turned out, the Atlawa grew the crystals in certain caves such as this one, so there was indeed enough to heal both Spyro and Cynder half a dozen times over.

A fire cracked in the center of the cave, between the Dragons sitting side-by-side and the chief who sat alone. In another cave, far away, there was a fire which the Dragons were urged to stay away from; it burned dragonsbane, a plant which the Atlawa harvested upon the Black Dragon's return. It was poisonous to Dragons if eaten and noxious if inhaled. It had taken all day, but they had burned the last of it.

"I am sorry for our misunderstanding," The chief spoke quietly.

"It's all right Tyrragor," Spyro replied. "You had every right to be afraid."

"The Black Rains and Dark Pools we thought were signs of our destruction—that the Black Dragon had once again taken control of the land."

"No. In fact, we've defeated the cause of most of the evil in this world."

The chief's eyes pulsed. "You stood against Malefor?"

Spyro nodded, "But it wasn't just me," he nodded to his left, "I had Cynder by my side."

"I see. So that is the depth of the bond which you two share." The chief lifted a smoking pipe. "Such a bond is sacred, especially among the Dragons."

Spyro and Cynder bashfully looked at either side, pretending to take interest in something else—the glittering crystals, the fire, outside.

"I must thank you for your action, Black Dragon. Were it not for you, one of the littlest of my tribe would be lost today." He brought the pipe to his lips. "But tell me, what drove you to sacrifice your companion over my failed responsibility? I would not blame you for choosing your companion over one of my own—"

"Don't say such a thing," Cynder snapped, and then retracted apologetically. "I mean…Spyro would have made the same choice."

"That is not the answer," he brought the pipe to his lips once again, "Perhaps it has to something to do with the shackle that was once on your right hind-leg."

Both Dragons exchanged glances, and then examined her leg. Neither had noticed, and it had been hours since their ordeal.

Finally Cynder voiced her reason, but she did not like it at all—it felt selfish. "I had to make up for what I did to your people in the past," she replied, "in order to free myself. So I chose to save the girl."

"You put my people before your own desire. That is the answer I wanted to hear." He brought the pipe to his lips for a third time, and blew the smoke reverently. "It is clear that you are _not _the Black Dragon."

Cynder shook her head. "No, you're wrong. I _am _the Black Dragon."

"Even if you were," he closed his eyes and tossed the ash from his pipe on the fire. It flared just slightly. "You have changed. It is time to forget the past and move on. We shall follow your example."

"Thank you, Tyrragor. It means a lot to us for you to forgive her."

The chief stared into the fire for a moment, as if contemplating. He did not blink or change pace in his breathing. He did not move for several moments. Finally he looked up at the Dragons, eyes focused upon them both.

"May I ask a favor of you?"

Both nodded.

"Kane and Roth were the most courageous of our kind. When the Black Rains fell upon our bright lands, they did not hide in shelter like the rest of us. And when the Dark Pools begot those vicious creatures, they were the first to battle them.

"We felt safe after fending them off—a feeling I now know is false after today. However, Kane and Roth were not satisfied. They felt—they _knew_—that the Specters were also in the forests below our high lands. Those forests are home to our rival tribe, the Arboktu.

"Kane and Roth broke the forbidden laws of our land and ventured down into the forests below. The next morning, Roth came back, carrying Kane over his shoulder—Kane had been murdered, and Roth greatly wounded."

The chief closed his eyes, as if stifling anger.

"But we could not help Roth. He broke our law. So he left the lands, in hopes of finding the Shrine God."

"That's a very tragic story," Cynder spoke, "But what does it have to do with our favor?"

"Arboktu and Atlawa are warring tribes. However, I would not feel right if we did not help them against the Specters that plague the land. And yet, our people are not made to survive in the forests." He allowed a pragmatic pause. "On behalf of the balance of the Land, please heed my request—aide the Arboktu, if it is not already too late."

Both dragons stepped forward, physically rising with their words. "We will." They said in unison.

The chief chuckled—or rather gently bleated—and stood. "There is no rush. Night falls, and it is unwise to walk the forests in darkness. Come, I will lead you to a cave where you may be alone tonight."

Cynder scratched at the ground, and yawned before lying down. The night was cool high up on the plateau—and windy. The breeze howled against the mouth of their cave, which made her feel slightly frightened, but it became soothing over time. A bed of coals was snuggled into the back of the cave, radiating with warmth. She met Spyro's eyes as she stretched and relaxed. Her limbs still trembled.

He gently rested his hand to stop her shaking. "Relax," he spoke soothingly, "I'm here, and you're down one shackle."

"I know," she said timidly. "I just keep seeing it all in my head—your face was so horribly fixed and…the blood was—"

"It stopped hurting when I blacked out," he said casually.

She glared at him and squeezed his hand a little angrily. "Don't _ever _let those things do that to you again, understand?"

"Yes, dear."

Cynder's mouth fell ajar, and she began to blush. "I mean—How _did _they manage to get you so badly? You're twice as strong as me and I managed to handle my side, like I promised."

Spyro pursed his lips. "I…guess I was just a little tired, that's all. The dragonsbane was still—"

"Dragonsbane-shmagonsbane, if anything that stuff did you a favor." She stood from her comfortably warm spot, pushing her nose onto his. "You probably got more sleep because of it than you have the past …what is it, six days now?" She pushed her head further, forcing his head down.

He blinked at first, and then felt his shoulders drop, and his knees bend.

She stared him down until his chin was on the floor.

"You're sleeping tonight." She spoke with a tone of ultimatum.

"I…" He sighed, "I'll try."

"Do I need to watch you?"

His head rocked side-to-side.

She stared at him for another moment, and then relaxed, lying back down in her spot. They faced each other, not even a foot of space between their lips.

"This might sound cheesy," he said, "but I'm proud of you."

"What's there to be proud of? I just pulled a 'you', that's all. It's in a day's work of being a hero, right?"

"I don't think…" he trailed, and then finally finished his words, "I would have made the same choice."

Cynder's mouth opened, and quickly closed. "What do you mean—you'd just let that little girl—?"

He looked away for a second, and scratched at the dirt. "I dunno. I mean, I haven't had to make that kind of choice. But if I ever did—" He swallowed, righting his gaze, "I've already lost Ignitus, I can't lose you, too."

He flinched as her hand gently rested upon his. "Trust me Spyro," she said, closing the distance between their faces, "It'll take a lot more than _that _to separate us." She closed her eyes and discreetly licked his nose.

As he stared at her dazedly, she gently lowered her hand upon his head, covering his eyes. "We've gotta save another tribe tomorrow, and if you don't sleep something bad might happen." She scooted forward just a little, and rested her head next to his, so that their cheeks brushed together.

"Good night Cynder," He said sheepishly.

"Good night, Spyro. And, for Ancestors' sake, if it ever came down to that decision; if you choose me, I'll be very, _very _angry."

"Understood."

She nuzzled him. "Good."

The coals huffed and puffed as the wind crept into their cave. Spyro watched as the red embers rose and fell, some losing their temper and running away from home. There were sounds of the Atlawa speaking outside, a distant conversation of fragmented syllables and solely consonants.

Cynder shifted a little, he closed his eyes for a moment and pretended to be asleep. He tried his best to keep them shut, but finally could stand it no more and opened them.

She sighed peacefully next to him.

He felt her warm breath tickle down his neck to the base of his left wing. A shiver rolled across his spine. He sighed too, to see if she would respond the same way—she did not. He moved his hand and touched her cheek gently as a feather. Her eye twitched, and she absently grumbled. She was heavily asleep.

He rose as slowly as possible, and in doing so his joints popped and cracked. At last he was upright—how his limbs _ached!_—and stepped backward as lightly and nimbly as a Manweersmall. As his rear protruded from the cave, the edges of his wings ruffled in the wind. He quickly turned and dashed, stared back at Cynder, and walked away a little guiltily.

He wanted to sleep—_needed_ to sleep. But he could not. Sleep required him to close his eyes—to dream. But every time he did, the images were too much to bear. Charred earth and the smell of sulfur and coal; bubbling rivers of molten rock and the haze of volcanic ash. And as if the hellish scenery was not enough, there, in the rising din, was the terrifying glare of—

Spyro gasped as his eyes flew open. His head snapped upright and he began panting; a tear welled in the back of his eye, and fell down his cheek. He spotted two Atlawa, watching him warily. He ignored them, and exhaled haggardly.

No, he would not sleep.

_You want to know who I am._

…_Yes._

_Such a fool. Think hard, you already know._

_No, I don't. Tell me._

_I cannot. If you really want to know, free yourself._

_Don't worry. I will._

_Good. Very good. Quickly though. There is much work to do when you are free. When you are free…._


	11. Chapter 11

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 11**

Sunlight pried Cynder's aching eyes open. She brought a hand up to shield the painful gleam, and rolled over to face the other side of the cave. Still the light crept into her eyes. She grumbled in irritation.

She massaged a crick in her neck as she rose and yawned. The sun tingled on her tongue and palate; that caused her to sneeze. As her eyes finished their forced adjustment, she began to notice the absence of a certain other Dragon.

As if at her cue, he appeared at the mouth of the cave, a long shadow in front of him raced to the back wall. "You're up," he said; she detected a ring of surprise in his voice.

"So are you," she said coyly, "Been up long," and then added very quickly, "all night?"

He shook his head, "No. I woke up to some noises and thought it was the Specters. Turned out to be kids playing outside." He stepped inside the cave, "One of them told me to say 'hi' to 'Cymber'."

She paced toward him, her nose invading his natural space. His neck moved back at the shoulders a little, and she only closed the gap, her eyes boring holes into his. She watched her pupils move side to side, and could even see them dilate just a little. Finally she receded just a little, pausing to give one last cursory examination, and then relaxed.

"All right." She muttered.

Inwardly, he almost screamed.

"So when are we going to help the Arboktu?"

"When you're ready, Tyrragor will take us down to the forest ground."

"Can't we just fly down?"

"The canopy is too thick; we have to go through the caves to get under it."

"Then let's go." She started to walk out of the cave, but Spyro pressed his hand against her shoulder, gently pushing to discourage her step.

"We'll be at a big disadvantage down there. We won't be able to fly. Are you sure you want to go?"

"I can't let you go alone."

He looked at her for another moment, and let his hand fall away.

Whisked from one cave into another, the Dragons followed the Atlawan chief down a steep slope interrupted every few yards with a bar of wood to help flatten the earth. Each interval was accompanied by a drop of different height, and no matter how warily she tried to step, Cynder never quite expected it.

The ground began to level, and Cynder found herself following the wiggling torch in Tyrragor's hand almost sleepily. Even though there were three spearmen with them, the darkness, and an echoing drip in the distance, gave her the sensation of being small and alone.

The air became very damp and cool as they wondered the endless tunnel. Cynder began feeling numb at her toes, and realized that they were in a thin film of water cold as ice. Except the water was not exactly fluid, it was a little viscous, mixed with a very fine silt. At first she thought it was of the evil water, but it was only guilty of stagnation.

Abruptly they stopped.

"This is as far as we go." Tyrragor said. His voice was barely above a whisper. The chief made a motion with his other hand as if he was reaching for something, and moved his torch toward it. Instantly another hiss of din came to life, flaring brightly and illuminating almost up to the walls. The chief let the floating ember go and it swung back and forth gently, gaining weight as it did.

It swung from the front of a medium-sized boat, enough to fit the entire Atlawan tribe. The boat was tethered to a stub of rock jutting from the wall. One of the spearmen went to the knot, and untied it. The sides of the boat began to rock and the water about its hull _splish_ed quietly. In the dark even the boat wanted to stay hushed.

"This channel will take you several miles and stop. When you reach the other end, please turn the boat around and raise the sail so that it may travel back."

The Dragons exchanged glances, and then Spyro helped Cynder onto the protesting shake of the deck.

Once both were aboard, Tyrragor explained that one would have to steer while the other moved the wheel at the center of the deck for propulsion. Spyro took the wheel, and told Cynder to take the yoke. The yoke was a standalone post positioned in front of the wheel, with two handles on either side to form a _T_.

Cynder wrapped her fingers around the handles and gently experimented, and found it turned on the post naturally, and if she put just enough strength on it she could move the post itself a little side-to-side. She figured that was not meant to move at all, and so tried her best to keep it from doing so.

"Once back on land it is a short distance to the other end of the cave—although it is disguised with rocks. Please replace them when you are through to the outside."

"I understand Tyrragor," Spyro mumbled, his voice echoing gently across the walls.

"One last thing," the chief and his spearmen placed their hands upon the ship's rump. "Good luck." With a muffled heave they pushed forward, and the water violently protested as the boat convulsed from the turbulence.

Cynder struggled to regain control of the yoke, and as the boat lost its momentum she managed to right it. They now floated freely. She nodded to Spyro, and he placed his hands diligently on the long bars of the turning wheel. The wood began to creak and moan as his arms rolled across the handholds.

The lantern at the head of the boat swayed back and forth, reflecting off the ripples in the still water as they drifted along in silence.

* * *

Terrador grumbled with anger as he rolled onto his feet. The late nights were getting to him—he was awakening long past the sun. A warrior who woke after the sun woke up dead in the afternoon. He looked to his left, and of course his brothers were awake and already doing _their _jobs.

He spat the morning saliva off his tongue and stretched his legs as he rose. He sniffed the air and looked toward the west; Thunderheads.

"Terrador, you are awake," A small Mole came up and spoke in the usual nervous tone.

Terrador smiled, the Moles were so humble and yet the best of warrior. They had proven their worth in the Battle of Warfang, when Dragons had attacked to gain territory. The Moles had thwarted the Dragons, almost without exercising much skill, and in the end a peace-treaty was formed. A Century later, Dragon City was complete; a sign of the growing friendship between the two once-warring nations.

"Shoulders straight, head up, eyes focused—Atten_tion!_"

The Manweersmall struggled to follow the Dragon's commands; he stood as rigidly as possible; his sweaty hand gripped the edge of his shirt.

The Dragon forced him to hold the position for a wrenchingly long moment, until finally _at ease _was uttered, and he could let his numbing lungs take in a fresh breath of air.

"What news do you bring, Roland?"

"The bi-daily report, sir."

"Speak it while we walk to the reconstruction district."

"Yessir," Roland uttered, and his feet scuttled to keep up with the Dragon's pace. Terrador walked more slowly than usual, as he always did when the Moles were at his side. "The checkpoint at Endre's Gate has reported the Wyverns passing close to dawn."

"Where were they headed?"

"They are arching northward, toward Neam."

"Hmm…" Terrador nodded, "Continue."

"The Grublins in Pineswallow have been suppressed; the troops are heading back and will be here in four days. The Grublins in Karlor are putting up a strong resistance but should be handled with shortly—"

"Just a moment Roland—_Cyril!_"

Above in the sky, a blue-white Dragon snaked his head and then his body to face toward Terrador as he was called. The Dragon paused in the air for a moment, and then drifted down toward them. As Cyril approached, Roland felt the air cool about him; it was very refreshing on this hot and steamy day.

"What is it Terrador, I am very busy with the patrols."

"Call them off."

Cyril's eyes pulsed. "That is unwise. Against any mounting threat, I am our only warning. And I will not allow this city to fall under my watch."

"And I will not allow _you _to fall under _my _watch," Terrador nodded his head westward. "Thunderheads coming from the Tall Plains. See how quickly they move? They will be on us by nightfall."

"Then there's no problem. I can continue my morning patrol an—"

"Call them in. If there is any force that would challenge us it is in _that _storm; we will not have any aerial defense, and we have a gaping wound in our City. We must bring everyone inside _now _so that we may prepare for a potential attack."

"Our scouts have mentioned no such trouble in any part of the land." Cyril protested.

"Excuse me," Roland said meekly. Both Dragons broke their glares and stared down at him. He gulped. "The—um—the scouts in the—err—the east have—uh—I mean I don't want to sound—"

"Just tell us already!" Cyril snapped.

"Cyril, please. What is it, Roland?"

"The Orcs on Charrendohl Peak. They have made a move; they sent two forces. One in the direction of Avalar; the other in our direction."

Cyril glared. "When did you hear this?"

"The signals were sent early this morning before sunrise."

"Then how can we be certain you saw the signals correctly? The flags could have been misinterpreted."

"We're Moles—sir….we can see in the dark. Quite well in fact…"

Cyril's lips closed tightly. There was a long moment of silence, until finally he sighed. "Very well, I will call my forces down."

"Have them buffer the reconstruction."

The blue Dragon grumbled, and then batted his wings as he hulked into the air.

"What are you Roland?"

"A Mole, Sir."

"No, I mean your rank."

"Hah—oh—uh, just a sergeant…sir," The Mole removed his hat and wiped his brow.

"Strange…You take me as a captain—lieutenant at least." The Mole seemed very fidgety; Terrador could feel the waves of nervousness emanating from the tiny creature. "Would you like to accompany me to see Volteer?"

"Right away, Sir," Roland said at attention.

"That…was not an order."

The Mole squeaked as he gulped. Nevertheless he followed Terrador down the streets, passing a family of dragonflies observing a statue which Ardo Lennard, a distant cousin of his, was chipping away at with an irritated wrist. He paused to watch his relative's work, and saw the sculpture was just taking the form of a Dragon.

"Spyro's statue," Terrador said.

Roland jumped with fright—he did not realize both he and the Dragon had stopped. "You mean, the Purple Dragon?—The one who defeated the Golem?"

"The very one. That statue will be adorned with amethyst and displayed atop the reconstructed district."

"No wonder my cousin is so agitated."

"The artist is your cousin?" Terrador mused, "How can you tell he is agitated?"

"Look how he swings his hammer—short and quick. He's not even really looking at the stone. I think the pressure must be getting to him—that's an important statue if it's of the Purple Dragon."

"I think he's more agitated by the dragonflies. That one talking to him can be…well, I've grown a tolerance to endless chatter, thanks to Volteer." The Dragon chuckled. "Do you think I could ask your cousin to do another statue when he is done? There is another Dragon who…well, let us say, has been hiding in the shadows."

"I'm not sure if Ardo will be up to it," Roland said passively, and then quickly began correcting himself, "But, I'm sure I can get him interested. Especially if it's a request from you, sir."

"Thank you, Roland. Now, let us hurry. Volteer will probably have seen the thunderheads but I want to make sure he's aware that there might be an attack."


	12. Chapter 12

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 12**

Cynder huffed in exhaustion. Her arms felt detached as they walked across the wheel that moved the ship forward; the same repetitive motion. She had only traded with Spyro five minutes ago and already her shoulders were burning—how did he manage to go so long without breaking a sweat? She sighed inwardly, regretting a little her persistence to take the position.

"Ease up, tight turn," he said.

She felt the boat gently tap the wall as she strained to move the wheel in the opposite direction. "You _trying _to wreck this thing?" She said breathlessly.

"Sorry," he shrugged, one eye looking back at her, "my vision's not as good as yours."

"What can I say? Growing up in the dark had its perks."

"Come on Cynder. You're going to have to let the past go at some point."

"Sorry," she said genuinely. "I promise, I'll stop when I get rid of these shackles. After they're gone, I don't have any excuse, right?"

"You don't _now_…but I'm not gonna—argue," he turned sharply to the left, "Once we make sure the Arboktu are safe, I'll think of how to get the rest of them off, okay?"

There was a moment's pause as Spyro navigated the dark canal. She watched the torch at the front of the boat sway back and forth, its light illuminating Spyro in a pendulum fashion, half of him caste in light while the other hid in shadow. She waited for a moment when he would not need to steer so much.

"About that…" She said, a little hesitantly, "I don't think—I mean, it's more important that we help take care of the others before worrying about me."

"_More _important?" Spyro neglected the yoke and turned toward her, "You don't think being free is important?"

"No…It is but—" She looked down at the shackle around her right wrist. It was quickly covered by Spyro's hand.

"I understand," he said sincerely, and took her hand in his.

"You…do?" She questioned, a little frightened.

"Of course I do," he said carefully, "It can't be easy to face what you've done head-on like this. Your backhanded remarks, your aversion to other tasks, not to mention the shackles are a constant reminder to you." He stroked the back of her hand idly. "It must make you really sad to have to prove yourself. I can tell you feel daunted, frustrated and intimidated by it."

He looked into her eyes, "So yes, I think I do understand—don't I?"

She could not help but wrap her arms around him, and allow an elongated breath to escape her nose. _Oh Spyro, you do understand a lot, but you're missing the most crucial thing…_

"I don't want you to be so forlorn. That's why it's important to me to help you get through this."

There was a moment of silence, and then Cynder abruptly opened her eyes.

"Spyro?" She asked a bit alarmingly, "Who's steering the boat?"

"Aw _jeez!_"

As if on cue the boat pitched forward, and Spyro felt his knees buckle as he took Cynder down with him to the flooring. The boat rocked and protested for an extended moment, until finally it seemed to settle, and the gentle rolling ceased as it was carried up onto the shore of the bank—they had reached the far end of the cave.

Cynder shook her head as she rose up, and Spyro gasped with a strained throat. She realized she was on top of his chest and stomach, and hastily she got off of him, but not before jabbing her foot into his ribs accidentally. A painful grunt escaped him, and he rolled and coughed, and then the cough turned into a sort of chuckle.

"Let that be a lesson to you," she teased, "Next time, instead of swooning me, steer the boat."

"I wasn't trying to—"

They both paused and held their heads up high, listening to a hiss that skulked through the dark cave.

"It's just the wind," Cynder said. "The vents that lead the boat back, probably. Speaking of which we should raise the sail."

"Right," he said, and began fumbling with the knots on the mast.

"What are you, scared?"

"No, I just…" Spyro's hand tugged and pulled at the knot, and he tried prying it loose with his claw, but his sleepy eyes and detached fingers could barely even stand navigating the boat, let alone untying a knot.

"Step back," she said, gently pushing him aside, "Watch my dexterity at work."

Spyro shook his head as she teased the knot loose and pulled the rope down; the Atlawa were genius in their craft, for all it took was a simple pulley-system made of wood to raise the sail quickly and easily. When it was up, Cynder frapped the rope against the mast, and then tied an ugly knot—and another one for good measure.

Spyro was already out of the boat, and he helped Cynder step down onto the slick flooring of the cave. "Careful," he said, compensating her balance as she began to slip.

They looked back at the boat, its little lantern quietly swaying. It took both of them to turn it around, and as Spyro pushed it gently, Cynder jump-started its voyage back with a gentle burst of power from her maw. It would travel all the way back, via channels carved into the cave that let air flow in a specific direction. Although how it would pass the acute turns, Spyro could not guess.

As they watched the boat disappear into the distance, another hiss echoed. They felt rather than heard it, on the very back of their skulls. Inwardly, Cynder wished she had thought to keep the torch. She heard Spyro's feet scrape the ground as he turned, and followed him gingerly.

Three long minutes into darkness, and finally she barely felt a swish of cold air on her nose. In the pitch dark of the cave, a tiny light barely bigger than a Mole's hand, spilled into the darkness through a void between two rocks. The mouth of the cave was just a yard in front of them.

"You ready to get out of here?"

"As soon as we walked in," she replied, and stepped up to the man-made cave-in. One by one the rocks wriggled loose and were set gently down inside the cave. The first few fistfuls of light were like gold to their eyes. It managed to abate Cynder's agitation quite significantly. At least if they were to be attacked, she could see it coming.

Eager to leave the confines of the cave, Spyro jumped through the half-dissembled wall and told Cynder to hand the rocks they'd removed over to him.

"You're not gonna trap me in here are you?"

"Darn, you saw through my plot."

She rolled her eyes, and tossed the rocks over; one-two-three-four…

It seemed a bit tedious to replace the rocks again, but Spyro reminded them both that it was on Tyrragor's request, and so they tried—and failed. Three stones to go, Cynder lost her balance standing on her tip-toes, and the wall tumbled inward, setting them back twice as far as they had even started.

Cynder scolded herself inwardly as she scowled, and then stared up at Spyro apologetically. She expected him to make a jibe, or at least show a loss of patience in his expression.

He gave no sign; he helped her up, hopped into the cave, and began tossing the rocks back over with a bit of a smile.

Ten careful minutes later, at last it came time for the last rock to be placed. Spyro picked it up, tossed up shortly once and twice. He then looked at Cynder, and the rock left his hand, rolling in her direction. It dropped into her grasp of both hands.

_Show off_. She thought as she lifted the well-sized stone with visible effort. "I don't think this counts as a past mistake, unfortunately." She said with a huff.

"It'll make you feel better though."

"I'll feel twice as dumb when I make it fall again. Will you laugh if I do?"

"I won't have a reason," he said, and he placed his hands on her sides to spot her.

She shrugged through a sigh and stood on her toes once again, reaching to place the stone at the top of the stack. She rolled it into the place, but it protested and started to roll left—she held it. For few seconds she held it still, coaxing it to stay and warned she was going to let go. As she did, she fell back into Spyro's arms; he in turn, fell back onto a tree, after losing his balance.

She laughed, "Graceful."

"At least it wasn't you," he said, adjusting to sit comfortably behind her.

"Aw…now I feel a little guilty." She wiggled a little, scooting up so that her cheek rested upon his shoulder. "Thanks for taking the fall for me."

"Anytime," He said, patting her stomach.

"I don't really want to move," she said, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, "Do you think we can stay like this for a while?"

They were silent for a moment, while the forest was not. Spyro looked around, taking in the serenity of the sylvan domain. He tightened his arms around his companion in a gentle squeeze.

"No Specters yet. I don't see why not."

* * *

Roland's footsteps hit the ground in rapid succession as he briskly followed the Earth Master. In his opinion, Terrador was the complete opposite of what he had imagined; he expected a loud, boastful Dragon. A Dragon that sent shockwaves and fault shifts with every step he took.

Yet beside him walked a meek and humble Dragon, whose footfalls were as competitively quiet as a cat's.

As they rounded a corner, the Dragon waited for Roland to cross in front before continuing on. Terrador was also surprisingly patient.

This road ended in a very tragic manner; against the wall of the city—what was _left _of the wall, rather—was a crumbling heap of rubble, charred stone, clouds of drifting ash, and a hundred lengths of splintered wood.

A half-fallen tower from the rampart above the street was threatening to crash down on the wall, which would cause more ruin.

However, the tower would not be given a chance.

At its base, several Moles were scurrying about, their hands placing small packages on the ground. Several ropes rose into the air like fingers, clasping onto high windows of the tower; a small team of Moles shimmied upward, and disappeared into the structure for a few moments. They emerged and cautiously repelled to the security of solid ground.

Finally the Moles did a final check, and one whisked his hand to summon all of them away from the structure. They followed him, and stood nearby an almost invisible figure.

Volteer stood against the skyline, his yellow coloring reflected the sun blindingly against the blue sky. He leaned forward, checking the packages one final time, and then finally leaned back.

"At my command," he said with a swift tongue. "Commence demolishment in _tios, deux, un—maintenant!_"

A shockwave resounded through the air as a staccato of eruptions screamed from the middle of the tower. Jets of smoke and debris shot out of the windows with each blast, and in a second the top of the tower began collapsing in upon itself.

"Second blast—_now!_"

Another shockwave followed by a unanimous pulse of thunder that frightened the heart into skipping a beat. There was a brief moment of stasis, and then the tower began a slow-fall.

It bellowed smoke from underneath that rose up like a reverse waterfall. The walls keeled inward and it began to buckle in on itself, taking the form of the letter _Z. _Finally it came down with a sigh of dust that plumed upward, curling like a fox tail. Another cloud of dust rushed outward and rolled across the ground, spilling over the edge of the wall to where Roland stood.

He covered his mouth and coughed.

As the last motes of dust began to cease their restless drifting, and even while the tower's remains still clinked and chattered as it made itself into a comfortable pile of dismal mortar, Terrador spoke.

"Excellent work, Volteer."

The Dragon turned and looked down to where Terrador stood, and then visibly straightened. "Master Terrador in our presence," He said, "Attention!"

The Moles all stood erect; Roland did so as well, out of habit.

"At ease,"

"Excellent exhibition gentlemen," Volteer said to the Moles that surrounded him, "Please salvage as best a quantity of stone as able and arrange it neatly at street-level. Another team will disassemble the rubbish by the wall, again salvaging all that is able." There was a pause as the Moles looked about. "Well, what are you waiting for? Disperse!"

As the Moles scattered, the Dragon drifted as a leaf would down to the street below, first over and then turning, finally alighting aside Terrador. "What summons you to my humble sector, my brother?" He eyed the small Mole at Terrador's side. "And who is this—your aide-de-camp?"

"This is Captain Roland," Terrador replied.

"_Sergeant _Roland, Sir," The Mole corrected with a meek voice.

"Really?" Terrador asked sideways, "I could have _sworn_ you were a Captain."

"No Sir, I—"

"In any case," Terrador interrupted, "I came to ask your report on the reconstruction of the Northern Rampart."

"Of course, I presently recall I am terribly overdue for the assessment—let me see, where to begin?" He looked about. "Ah yes, the exhibition of demolitionist grandeur you have just borne witness upon—fascinating theory. I assumed that by strategically allocating several small explosions set in a tier fashion and by detonating from top-to-botto—"

"Volteer," Terrador interrupted, with a tone of impatience, "I saw the tower fall down, it was entertaining. But have you made _progress_?"

"A little," came an uncharacteristically blatant reply. "Reconstruction is an art; it demands patience, forethought, calculation, strategy—"

"As does war, Volteer," Terrador spoke, almost reverently emphasizing the word _war_. "Which is why I must address an issue with you: there remains a gaping hole in our defenses. News of a phalanx of Orcs will arrive from the north and most probably they will come at us during the rains which come from the west."

"I have seen the thunderheads—very foreboding indeed. Notice the malifice—"

"All that concerns me is that with the storm approaching, we will be under limited visibility. Malefor's forces are still out there, and even though Malefor is dead, there is no guarantee they are disorganized. We must remain vigilant, do you agree?"

Roland watched as Volteer sighed, and nodded.

"Good. Cyril's aerial patrol is being called in, and I will have them fortify this area. Those men under you that can, will also help defend this area. There should be enough that they may work in shifts. Have a small squad ready to take civilians underground if need be."

"What exactly are you expecting, Terrador?"

The Earth Master's green scales seemed to ripple, either in anticipation, joy, restraint, elation—maybe a combination of all those things.

Roland felt a chill wind whistle across his whiskers.

"I expect a storm, Volteer."


	13. Chapter 13

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 13**

Cynder retrieved a sigh. There was no end to the chirrup, buzz, susurrus and tweet of the forest. It seemed to speak from everywhere like one long breathless voice orating an endless tale of mysticism, romance, terror, tragedy; droning on and on in ever rising crescendo to an unattainable climax.

She turned her head, and half of the noise was blocked out, replaced by the steady thrum of Spyro's heart. The motion caused the world around her to pitch; the roll and rocking of the boat could not be shaken from her very easily. But the earth could throw as much a tantrum as it wanted. She was in his arms, even if she felt upside-down.

She opened her eyes as a miraculous ribbon of sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of greedy limbs. Spyro's head was turned away just so, and the light seemed to glance off of his cheek and follow down the crook of his neck, curling like an ocean wave before it broke and cascaded down his shoulder into shadow.

Abruptly he looked down to her. Her eyelids balked; why did she have to think with such imagery? She felt a little embarrassed, displayed only by her hand becoming a bit fidgety.

Her mind came back to the present, and she was keenly aware Spyro was behaving agitatedly. Although he was looking down at her, his eyes pointed to the left. She glanced but saw nothing. Spyro smiled, his eyes darting to her for just a moment, and then went to the right.

His arms seemed to relax, and his hands held her sides. He slowly lifted her. "We should get going," he said, although it was spoken a bit louder than should have been.

"You're right," she replied as she righted herself.

He snaked his body and stood beside her, and then shook his head. "Oh wait," he said as he turned.

"What is it?" She asked, aware of his strange demeanor.

"Let's ask our visitor if he wants to come with us."

Cynder blinked, and above her head she heard the leaves of the canopy rustle as if the tree itself started in surprise.

Spyro opened his mouth, and a quick pulse of electricity crackled through the air. She felt the cold snap of wind that followed, and balked as a small mass almost fell upon her from above.

The thing groaned. It turned over, lying upon its back, large eyes rolling about in their sockets. It stayed motionless for a moment, its long skinny limbs and tail splayed, its left leg twitching. Abruptly it seemed to snap out of shock and flipped backward. It scampered up the trunk of the tree with such speed Cynder's eyes watered as she tried to follow it.

Its head poked out from a curtain of leaves. Its large pupils were the size of apples. As quickly as it appeared, the disembodied head disappeared, and then chatter came from the closed curtain.

"Who are you?" Spyro asked.

Cynder looked at him. "How long…" She slammed her foot on the ground, and directed her voice up into the tree, "How long have you been _peeping _on us you little creep!?"

The chatter stopped, and the creature's head poked out once again. "Dragons do not belong here—not here."

Cynder's ears reeled at the high pitched voice; it was like scraping two rocks together. Not only that, he spoke quickly, his words almost slurring into one grumble.

"Who are you?" Spyro repeated.

"I don't care who he is, he's a _creep_."

"_You _invaded my home—invaded home." It ducked back in the leaves.

"Are you an Arboktu?"

There was a pause of silence, and then there was a bit of chatter. Finally the creature spoke from behind his veil.

"I am Meep—am Meep."

"Of _course! _It rhymes; Meep the Creep."

"Not creep, not creep!"

"Cynder, stop taunting him."

She furrowed her brow in distaste. "Fine."

"Meep," Spyro spoke, "My name is Spyro and this is—"

"Meep knows the Black Dragon—Black Dragon."

Spyro glanced at Cynder, but she did not allow him to see her bitterness. Yet he seemed to know it was there. "She's not the Black Dragon."

"No. Really—really?" His head emerged, and he gazed at Cynder. His eyes seemed to swallow her. She turned her face to one side, but kept her focus on his eyes. He receded once again. "Looks like Black Dragon—looks like."

"Well she—"

"I _was _the Black Dragon," she interrupted, "Now I'm not. Simple enough for you—you understand?"

A moment of silence once again.

"Black Dragon!"

"That's it!" Cynder slammed her talon against the ground. "Spyro I'm leaving. When the Specters come, tell the Arboktu they can't come crying to _me_." She turned, and began to walk away despite Spyro's single call of her name with sincerity.

"Black Dragon wait—wait!"

She growled, and turned once more toward the lemur. It burst from the tree, as if falling to the ground, and then bounced like sick booger by its tail.

"Meep answer you, now you answer Meep—Answer Meep. Why is Black Dragon here—why? We thought Specters sent by Black Dragon—we thought."

"Well you're wrong." She turned, intending to continue her leave.

"Meep wrong." He said, his voice dropping with admittance. "Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Meep Wrong—Wrong Meep, wrong-wrong Meep."

She turned back once again, the continuous chant perturbing.

He dangled from the tree, swinging like a pendulum in tiny arcs. His eyes were closed, and his hand was under his chin, as if thinking.

She looked at Spyro, who returned her glance.

"_Meep knows!_" Meep exclaimed; a pair of birds screeched and flew from a nearby tree at the sound of his shrill voice. "If Black Dragon not control Specter—not control—then who control Specter—who? Who, who, who…" He kept repeating the word, and began turning in a circle as he did so.

The Dragons exchanged glances once again.

"We don't know." Spyro admitted.

Meep stopped his chant and snapped his head around to Spyro. Then he quickly scurried up his tail and disappeared into the tree.

Cynder approached Spyro's side and stared up at the tree along with him. "Excuse me, Meep?"

"Yes?" His head burst from the tree, eyes fluttering. "Yes, yes?"

"How do you know of the Specters?"

The chatter began again for a moment, and finally he spoke. "Tribe attacked last night—attacked! Creatures like Arboktu but not—not Arboktu. Rival Atlawa call Sepcter—Rival Atlawa."

"The Atlawa were attacked as well," Spyro said, "We helped them."

A screech came from behind the curtain of leaves. "Rival Atlawa! Rival!"

"They asked us to help _your _tribe as well," Cynder added.

"Rival!" His head burst forth, "Rival Atlawa!—" disappeared.

"Meep, when your tribe was attacked, what happened?"

"Meep not know—no, not know."

_Does the entire tribe speak like this?_ Cynder shook her head. "What do you mean you don't know?"

There came a dull hum from the tree, as if he was hesitant to answer. Finally he spoke, his tone very low and slow, and with odd clarity. "Meep flee…Run away…"

"Do you know if your tribe is all right?" Spyro asked.

"No…" Replied the same pitiful voice.

"Will you take us to them?" Cynder asked.

The lemur slowly came down the trunk of the tree, his neck bent almost perpendicularly as he looked at them. "Meep scared," he said, "Scared…"

Cynder stepped up to him, her agitation completely forgotten. "Don't be scared," she said soothingly, as he came to her head-height. "We're here to help you. We'll protect you if you take us to your tribe."

Meep looked back and forth several times between the two Dragons. He shrank against the tree, his tail twitching nervously. Finally he relaxed, and then scurried up once again, and hung from the branch of the far limb, latching onto an adjacent tree. "Follow Meep—follow!"


	14. Chapter 14

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 14**

Cynder huffed as she trotted; she tried to run when she could but the obstructing roots and bramble made it difficult. Even worse she had to squeeze through the trees which were unmercifully close together. She looked behind; Spyro was trudging as if his feet were stuck in tar.

"Hey! Hurry your butt up!"

Meep seemed to almost fly like a ghost above their heads. It was all she could do to keep up with him. Even then, she only managed to see the branches that shook from where he had just leapt.

"Spyro lose some weight!" She yelled back again, the distance between them growing.

"Not all of us—" He grunted, wriggling through two embracing trunks, "Have a girlish form…like yours—" With a final roar he managed to get his hindquarters through.

In truth, he was tired. The speckled light and dense array of foliage and branches took a toll on his dry and puffy eyes. The nettle of roots and duff made his balance falter almost constantly; but he gritted his teeth. He had to gain a second wind; weariness was no excuse. For all he knew, the tribe depended on his very urgency—

"About time you caught up," Cynder said through heavy breaths.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, this way—this way!" Meep began shouting overhead. "Close, close, close, close, very close—very-very close!"

Spyro was determined to arrive on the scene first; if he could not… No, that was not an option. He began taking larger bounds between the roots. He slicked his wings back, almost like the fin of a fish, and began weaving between the trees. If the spaces were too small at ground height, he jumped to where they were more open. Clearly Meep had the right idea; it was much easier to move about if you were higher up on the trees.

"Spyro stop! Where are you going?"

His foot clipped as he heard her voice, and all of his weight turned against him and dropped like lead to the duff. His head scraped the length of a tree. When he rose, his vision a bit dazed, the back of his head smarted and burned.

"Are you all right?" She called out.

He did not reply right away; he slowly walked toward her voice, and found her quickly. "I'm fine," he said. "I guess I got carried away…"

"There's a clearing a few yards ahead. That's where Meep went. I think that's the tribe's home." She stepped beside him, and gently patted the area where he had been scratched. "Why don't you go first?" She offered, and held a curtain of foliage aside for him.

Spyro grumbled as he started to step through, but he stopped as a lemur appeared. "…Meep?" He asked.

"Not that coward—no no. Moyfi. Why you here—why?"

_Great they _do _all talk like that._

"I am Spyro and this is Cynder."

Moyfi eyed Cynder, but if he recognized her as the Black Dragon he ignored it.

"We're here because the Atlawa were attacked by the creatures called Specters."

"Atlawa weak—weak, weak!"

"We helped them, and they asked us to help you. We heard from Meep that you were attacked—"

"Not need your help!" He hissed as he pointed at Spyro.

"Moyfi," Cynder spoke calmly, "May we speak to your elder—or your chief…your leader?"

The lemur looked at her; that same stare that Meep had first given her. His jaw twitched several times, emitting a gentle clicking sound. "Wait." He commanded, and leapt up to the branches Cynder was holding. He wrenched them from her hand, and they flew back into place; he disappeared behind them.

"They're certainly…interesting," Spyro said after a moment of chirruping from the forest.

"Don't you mean _annoying_?"

"We're going to have to look past that."

_So you admit it._ She shook her head. "You're right. The Atlawa wanted us to help them. Even if they are rival tribes, we can't discriminate." _No matter how tempting it is…_

Moyfi appeared again, his head bursting through the leaves above their heads. "Ufufu will meet—he will."

Cynder began to step forward. "Thank you, Moy—"

The lemur emitted a grating hiss. "Not the Black One—no, only the Purple One—only Purple One."

Cynder met Spyro's gaze. She nudged her head in the direction of the clearing that lay beyond the few trees in front of them.

Spyro furrowed his brow, and turned his back. "I won't see him."

"What?" Moyfi chattered, "Must—must! Ufufu beckon—yes!"

"If he won't see Cynder, I won't see him."

Cynder snaked her way to his front. "Spyro, it's okay. They're just being cautious."

"If their leader won't trust us, we can't help them." Spyro said with a rational tone.

"Spyro…" Cynder began soothingly, resting her hands on his shoulders. She met his gaze once again, but his eyes were stern. She sighed, and her hands began to rise— quickly she poised back, and lurched forward.

He huffed as she pushed him, sending his forelimbs up and his rear tumbling to the ground; he rolled over the tree roots and the ground spun around him. His eyes watered as he opened them, sunlight blaring into his pupils. He looked about; the clearing was very small, hardly a clearing at all. There was just enough room to walk around in, otherwise the trees circled him like vultures.

High up in the canopies were woven dwellings of branches and leaves that, to the naked eye, looked almost invisible. Were it not for the heads of the Arboktu that peeked out from the network of canopy-homes, they would have gone unnoticed.

Spyro looked back to where he had been pushed. He could not see Cynder. He felt a thump on the bridge of his snout; he made a three-point look. First at the object that fell upon the ground, a large acorn nestled itself to the duff. He then looked up, lifting his brow and craning his neck to see up the tall trees. Finally he spotted the culprit; a lemur, albeit a large one, stared down at him expectantly, as if waiting for the Dragon's attention but not doing anything more to direct him. Spyro adjusted so that he was facing the lemur.

"Ufufu," he said, and although he tried to speak with the utmost respect and sincerity, the very nature of the name would almost not allow it.

"Purple Dragon," the Arboktu replied. Despite the Arboktu's natural high-pitched voice—Spyro assumed that was a trait among them at least—his voice was very quiet, like the falling of autumn leaves upon the ground. "Why have you come into our home so unannounced?"

He spoke well enough, too.

"I apologize. We arrived here only recently, and were not told to…announce ourselves." Spyro fought for the words; he was capable of showing respect and dignity among officials, Ignitis had taught him that well. But Ufufu was different. The lemur's eyes seemed to stare with disdain.

"That did not answer me. _Why_ have you come?—Not when."

Spyro's tongue slowly traced his palate; his throat was drying, but he would be honest. "We have come by the request of the Atlawa. Yesterday they were attacked by Specters, but with our help managed to fend them off."

The lemur studied him for quite some time, tiny paw stroking his bearded face. After several moments, the lemur began moving, and slowly tickled his way down the trunk of the tree from which he perched—the largest tree of the clearing. As he came closer to Spyro, the Purple Dragon did not move or flinch, merely stared back. Almost nose-to-nose, the lemur's consuming black eyes gazed into his.

"The Atlawa sent you?" he said slowly.

"Yes."

"Are you aware they are our rival tribe?—That they have been our rival for ten generations?"

"I am aware you are rival tribes."

Ufufu peered very closely into his eyes, and Spyro fought the habit to move his head back. Finally the chief lemur blinked and broke the gaze.

"Impossible as it is…He does not lie."

Spyro heard a rustle, and as he looked up, the heads which peeked from the homes of woven branches and large, thin leaves, began clambering out. Three dozen Arboktu stood around him, gazing. The chief spoke, and Spyro immediately returned his attention.

"You are correct, Purple Dragon. The creatures known as Specters _did _attack us. But we are not frail and delicate as the Atlawa are; we fended them off ourselves."

"Were there any injuries?"

The chief gave a semblance of a smile. "A few, but none serious. The Atlawa have forgotten our strength; they believe us to be weak and cowardice for we are small and stay hidden among the treetops. We gladly let them believe what they wish, no matter how wrong they are." At this the chief did smile.

"These creatures are nothing to smile about," Spyro spoke, and immediately regretted it. Making such a statement was disrespectful.

The chief's smile dropped, but he did not seem offended. "You are right, young Dragon. Which is why we are preparing to leave."

"No," the Dragon stated, standing sternly. "We have been sent to help you and we _will_. Fleeing is not an option."

Around him, the Arboktu began to chatter—but it was almost as if they were laughing.

"Dragon," the chief replied, ignoring the laughter of his tribesmen, "You misunderstand. We make preparations for _attack_, not to flee. We will not allow the Specters to intimidate us; we will show them what it is like to be invaded, attacked in the home."

At his words, a small lemur appeared beside him. She was very meek and young, and stared at Spyro with what appeared to be fear and worry. She clutched a necklace; it was made of tiny pieces of glinting metal. The chief laid a protective arm around her.

"My daughter, Lu," he said, introducing the lemur. "It is for her, and for all our children that the men of the tribe and I have decided to take an offensive stand."

"Then let us help you," Spyro said.

"No."

Spyro's eyes widened in surprise, "Why not?" He asked flatly.

"Hm…" The chief looked at his daughter. "Very well, Dragon. If you wish to help us, then I would ask you to stay here and protect our home."

Spyro looked about once again; the trees above were still staring at him. There was no telling how far the village stretched, or how many Arboktu resided in it. He considered the chief's proposition.

"All right," he accepted. "I will watch over the village while the tribesmen are gone."

"Excellent, now we can prepare a full assault!"

"But you must take my partner with you."

The chief, who had raised his hands, let them fall slowly. "You wish for us to take the Black Dra—"

"She is _not _the Black Dragon."

There came a quick rustle from the treetops.

Spyro let out a sigh. "She is not the Black Dragon any longer," he clarified with a softer voice. "She wants to help, probably more than I do. Allow her to go with you—if you will not trust her, I will not be able to protect the village."

The look of disdain once again returned to the chief's gaze, and his village began to chatter to themselves. The chief closed his eyes, contemplating. After a long moment, he held up his hand and the chirrup of voices ceased immediately.

"You have been honest to me the whole time. I have seen it in your eyes. My suspicion was that she was the source of the Specters—but I cannot ignore your honesty. We will allow her to come with us, but she will only fight with us if absolutely necessary."

Spyro lowered his gaze for a moment, and then looked back up. "That's fine. When will you leave?"

"Soon."

Spyro looked about once more for just a moment, and then acknowledge the chif's word before he ducked back through the tree trunks from where Cynder had pushed him.


	15. Chapter 15

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 15**

"We are ready," said Moyfi, emerging from the brush. As quickly as he had come, he vanished.

Cynder looked at Spyro with confidence; he looked back with worriment. "That's my cue," she said.

"Please," he wrapped his arms around her briefly, "be careful."

She nodded, turned, and began following the tribesmen. It did not take long for her to look back one final time; this, she realized, was the first time they would be separate in quite a while.

The Arboktu tribesmen were unnaturally quiet above her. They skulked about the tops of the trees like phantoms, whilst she was forced to trudge her way through the duff, squeezing through gaps in the trunks. She had gotten progressively better at it over time. It helped that her body was slender.

A mixture of guilt and adrenaline coursed through her.

"How did it go?" She had asked Spyro, as he came back into the forest.

"They're planning an attack on the Specters. They want to go on the offensive."

When she first heard it, she was caught by surprise. "Are you sure they can handle it?"

"He says they're stronger than they look…so I dunno. Either way, we're helping them…the only thing is, one of us has to stay behind to watch the village."

At this, she felt a bit miffed. How was she supposed to redeem herself and break another shackle babysitting a village? Then she shook the thought from her head. "Right," she had said, "You can count on me."

"I know," he had replied. "They're leaving soon, so be ready." At this she nodded. "And, one other thing; they don't want you to get involved unless absolutely necessary. Stay close to the chief though, protect him, okay?"

At this she was confused. "Wait…_you're _staying behind?"

Ten minutes later, she found herself in the present, stumbling across roots and shrubs. She had noticed the Arboktu moved with a stealth-like fear. They progressed only as the wind blew or at least pretended as though the wind was ruffling trees. In fact she had a hard time keeping track of them.

But it seemed as though Moyfi—at least she thought it was Moyfi—became aware of her hesitant steps. Every so often he would overtly expose himself. She became acutely aware that if they were going for stealth, she was a hindrance. She tried her best to compensate; her steps became lighter and she tried to move in a manner that imitated the Arboktu's: sporadic, intermittent, and natural.

The light began to dim as she slithered onward. To her it felt like approaching an area where night was ever present. Here she felt the silence grow; entering to some forbidden area of the forest, where not even the insects, lizards or snakes dare scurry. The trees gathered more tightly to one another like scared children.

Her footfall met the ground with a soft _glop_. She recoiled and lifted it into the air. Ambiguous goo of no particular color other than dark that stank heavily glazed her talon. She shook her hand but the goo would not come off. Finally she painted it upon a nearby tree that shivered its leaves as if in protest.

Moyfi appeared in the distance, flinging his arm in motion for her to move faster. She squinted. The lines of the forest began to smear together, discarding its shimmering light altogether in favor of the withholding shadow.

At first she was a bit disoriented, for now she had only her ears to go by. But then, she realized just where she was—right in her element. A mix of relief and wariness came over her. She loved and hated the shadow.

_Do you like it?_

She froze; the voice was speaking once again, just as it had the night before.

_You feel safe, don't you?_

She ignored it. Continuing on, she heard the Arboktu chattering quietly all about her. She looked up, but there was no sky. The trees forever reached into the black distance. Then, she realized why; what surrounded her was the tell-tale fog of the Specters.

_I give you, another opportunity._ The voice said. _Go. Help them. Relieve yourself of another shackle._

She shook her head, abating the voice from her mind as much as she could. She began to hear, in the treetops above, the rush of wind just before the battle—and then the battle ensued.

Like a siren wail the Arboktu let out a shrill scream in unison. The trees rippled and swayed with the sound of scampering and footfalls. Rocks and heavy fruits crashed and broke around her on the roots and against the trunks.

She felt something land upon her back and dig into her scales. She grunted in pain, and wrenched the thing from her back. It hissed as it was pinned to the tree. She looked into its hollow eyes, and then pressed violently against its stomach. It disappeared.

She breathed heavily as the adrenaline began to surge. The sounds of battle about were not favorable; there were yells and shrieks of pain, and some spoken words of injury. Another Specter tried to attack her, but it was quickly snuffed by her tail.

_You know what to do. It is the perfect time. Release yourself._

She growled. The voice was tempting her. Another shriek crossed the forest. The chief was yelling now, ordering his men to fall back; that there were too many injured and some maybe even killed.

Cynder had enough. Despite her wariness and her own voice inside protesting against it, she became one with the shadows.

The world was a different place when she was one of them; ironically it was a much clearer place. She saw through the confusion and disarray of the forest and its tapestry of roots, trunks, branches and leaves. She could even ignore its limitations to her movement, as now she could slither through, around, and up like a fish in water.

She wasted no time; her emotions were checked as she swam through the shadows and passed by—rather through—the Specters that were attacking. She felt the shadow around them writhe and flex before it went cold and silent as, in the real world, they dispersed into a fog.

She saw only the faintest blurs of expression on the faces of the Arboktu, no doubt curious and yet greatly afraid of the shadow that killed other shadows—of her. But she felt safe; to them she was just that, another shadow. But what if the Arboktu figured out it was she?

No time to think; a young male was wounded and another was trying to aide him, surrounded by three Specters, and seven more lurked a yard away.

The Arboktu's legs trembled as the Specters came closer, their white faces and hollow eyes hungering for flesh. This was a bad idea—a horrible idea. He began to sob, holding his younger brother close. He wanted to move, but his legs were heavy and his feet could only cling so desperately to the tiny tree limb from which he stood.

He whimpered as the Specter he was facing dashed forward.

The air about him swirled and misted; something else, he felt, was nearby; like _them _but not. It brushed past him, and as it did the Specter before him seemed to drift into the air, hissing and screaming before it erupted into a dozen puffs of black smoke.

Around him, he saw other Specters emerge, and yet they seemed frightened—just as frightened as he was. They looked about, him and his brother forgotten altogether.

One fell from the tree, disappearing forever. A second was carried off. The last one that was nearby gurgled before it simply fell away into dust.

"Run," a voice came from the shadow, "Run to the chief."

"Who….who…?" He tried to speak, looking about. Like a ghost, the image of a Dragon, translucent and fading, appeared standing over thin air before him. It was _her_; the Black Dragon.

"Go." She said gently, before she disappeared.

It was far too easy for Cynder to fell these creatures. One by one the people of the trees were rescued by her, until at last they were all liberated from the danger. With her powers drained, she drifted back down to the forest floor, and joined the real world once again.

She looked about, and smelled the air. The cologne of rot filled her nostrils. She followed the acrid fog into the thick, and the smell became ever more pungent. Around her, she sensed the Specters watching, but they did not dare approach her.

The trees became sparse and many of them lay dead upon the ground. In the distance, even through the gathering smog, she could see the alluring glow of the Dark Pool.

It was large, at least five yards in diameter. Around it, the Specters were gathered all facing her at the brim of the still, violet water. Around her, the air began to fill with whispers, muffled shouts, and distant screams.

_You know what you must do._

Silently, she stepped into the shallow pool, and the whispers began to rise into frenzy as the smog began to gather more tightly around her. One by one, the Specters dissolved.

Chief Ufufu watched as his men appeared on the outskirts of the black fog within the forest. Each one said the same thing; they were surrounded, often by several Specters, and then suddenly the enemy became frightened, and each of them was turned into black smoke.

But what caught his attention was one of his men, who said he had seen the Black Dragon standing canopy-height on thin air like a ghost. It seemed farfetched; perhaps he was just too frightened.

Yet they looked for the Dragon, his most able men assisting him, and she was not found. Moyfi, who had kept his eye on her the entire time, said that she simply vanished. A third search party of four of his men returned; no Black Dragon.

He looked about. Of his almost thirty men, half were injured. Several were still missing—as if on cue they emerged from the fog. One was injured, and was helped by two others down to the ground, where their camp of necessity was situated.

Ufufu approached them.

"Chief," one of them replied, "You will never guess what happened!"

"The Specters about you and your brethren have been suddenly disappearing," he stated.

The two men uninjured seemed to take on surprise, but the injured man in the middle smiled. "The Black Dragon," he stated. "I _saw _her; at first I thought she was fighting us, but then—" He began to cough.

"Take him to the others," the chief said, gesturing to a flat bed of roots whereupon several of his injured men were lying. As they led their friend to the location, Moyfi emerged from the trees above.

"Chief, we have found her!"

"Where is she?" He shouted up.

"She comes now—look!" He pointed toward a separation of trees.

The Black Dragon emerged. She was hesitant in step as she met his eyes. She did not stop her approach, however, and as she was within a foot of him, she finally sat awkwardly upon the roots.

The chief gazed into her eyes for a moment; they seemed distant. Her pupils were dull and the color of her eyes was dim, as if they were clouded by the fog around them, which was rapidly thinning.

"My men say it is a miracle we are alive," he said.

"I'm sorry I wasn't much help," she said, "I couldn't see a thing and I kept getting caught in the roots."

"Really?" He asked.

She nodded.

"Some of my men say they saw a black dragon save them from certain doom."

She seemed to take the news in stride, as if it was interesting gossip. "This place is very frightening. I'm sure they were seeing things."

"Why do you lie?"

At this she seemed to get angry. "You're safe," she said, "The Specter's are gone and they won't come back. That's all that matters."

Ufufu met her eyes. She was surely the one who saved his men, and no doubt she used her own dark powers to do so. But she was reserved, perhaps even angry. "You do not like your powers…do you, young Dragon?"

She gave no reply, but her eyes spoke very clearly, even through their haziness.

"I see," he smiled. "Thank you."

Cynder sighed and shook her head, abating the whispers in her ears. She tried to listen to the chief as he gave orders for his men to rest for several minutes. Soon they would return to the village with the good news of victory. At the word _victory_, every pair of eyes seemed to snatch a glance at her.

The resting began as a gray cloud of fog came over the forest. Cynder's shoulders tensed for a moment, but it was only gray fog. She breathed it in—and her shoulders tensed once again.

At that moment, a distant shriek came roaring toward them. An Arboktu flew out of the trees, landed upon the ground with a crack, and then struggled to stand. The chief and several men surrounded him; Cynder rose.

_It couldn't be…_

"Meep! You coward, why are _you _here?" The chief spoke viciously.

Meep lifted his head, terror in his eyes. "The Village," he said, an unnaturally black tongue hanging from his mouth, "The village is burning!"

Cynder had taken off long before the others could even react. Despite the forest and its constant attempts to keep her going beyond a trot, she sprinted through the tree trunks with the agility of the Arboktu that she could hear behind.

As she ran, the conflagration before her took form. The bodies of trees were being consumed, silently screaming with terror as the tongues of bright orange flame tasted their leaves.

The air was filled with white and gray smoke. Her lungs filled with air that would normally sear everything it touched. Despite her desire to go forward, she stopped and, to the mob of Arboktu behind her, let out a siren scream.

They paused, some losing their grip and falling from the trees. She stood between them and the roaring inferno. The chief stepped forward.

"Stand aside, Dragon! We must save the village."

"You'll burn alive," she snapped, pushing the chief back. "Stay here, _I _will go. I'll rescue the villagers and find Spyro." She gave no other warning to the chief; before he could even reply she darted into the flames.

Limbs from high above were falling, crashing onto the ground and lighting fire to the roots. It was feeding itself, growing with every passing moment. She ran deeper, the heat and smoke abated by her Dragonish affinity. She called Spyro's name, searching through the trees. The forest bent with the rays of the heat, rippling and squiggling like a settling pool of water.

She heard screams. In a moment she came upon the village. The trees of which it was composed were burned completely to the ground, except for one that resisted; and it was losing. Upon it, resting in the cup of its bough, were a dozen Arboktu women and children.

She called Spyro's name again—where was he?

There was no time for him; he would be fine. She turned to the helpless Arboktu. "Come down to me," she said as calmly as she could. The flames roared and grew for a moment, then receded.

Some of the children shook their heads, others whimpered. The mothers, however, nodded. "Come," they beckoned.

Cynder spread her wings for the first time since she entered the forest. The mothers immediately understood, and for that Cynder was glad. They rushed down the trunk, leaping over a tendril of fire that had begun taking hold of the roots that were in their path, and finally arrived to her. They huddled closely together under her wings.

"Just stay calm," she said, "I'll guide you out of here, okay?"

The walk was horrendously slow. One of the children became delirious from the smoke, and the mother had to carry it. Cynder tried her best to keep them calm, telling them it was only a little farther.

All went relative until, high above her head, the sound of thunder came. A pillar of fire erupted beside her, and almost before she could react, a wave of heat and dry flame crashed upon her back. She yelled in pain as the simmering coals passed the threshold of her scales. She gripped the branch that had fallen upon her, and threw it behind.

The children and mothers were all but petrified. Cynder shook the embers from her back. Pain smarted through her every time she stepped, but now the edge of the flames _was_ only just a bit farther ahead. She could see the greenery of the lush forest that had not yet been consumed. The tribesmen were waiting beyond that line.

As they emerged, the children ran to their fathers. Families embraced one another, kissing and caressing scalps, brushing soot and ash from cheeks.

The chief remained alone.

"My daughter…" He spoke, "_Where is my daughter?_" He rushed at Cynder, "What have you done with her? Where is she?"

"I don't—I don't know," Cynder said, trying to calm to chief down. He looked into the roaring wall of fire.

"Lulan!" He shouted, and began charging toward the flame.

Cynder held him back; he struggled to tear free from her grasp. The embers roared.

"Look, over there!"

Everyone watched as a hazy form haggardly slumped, veiled behind the red and orange wall. It came forward, one slow step a time. Finally it crossed, and Cynder's heart thundered with relief—Spyro.

He trudged forward, his body low to the ground. The chief broke free from Cynder's distracted grasp, and ran to the Dragon.

"My daughter Lulan! Where is she? What happened to her?"

Spyro stood. The flames seemed to finally begin receding. The Purple Dragon looked solemnly at the distressed father, and raised his right hand, proffering an object.

A look of disbelief and sadness came onto his face; the object dropped into his shaking, open hands. His fingers curled upon the object. He closed his eyes, sobbing into his fists.

Amid the chief's hands, Cynder could see the distinctly bright glint of metal slivers, hooked together to make a necklace.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 16**

The forest was strangely silent as the chief cried. Soon even he became silent. Cynder was by Spyro's side, the flames quieting to gentle sighs behind them, content that it had ruined and destroyed everything. A scar of ash and crumbling wood lay for several hundred yards. The sky was visible through the smog; evening shrouded in smoke.

The chief looked at the metal necklace which his daughter had worn. Spyro watched him forlornly, without a word. The chief looked up finally, glaring at the Purple Dragon.

"_You _did this." He stated.

Spyro's eyes blinked slowly.

"Had you not come, none of this would have happened! We trusted you and your companion, and you have _failed _us!"

"_Failed us…_" the quiet chant murmured.

Cynder looked to Spyro for response; his eyes were heavy and his scales streaked with soot and hot ash.

He nodded.

She became enraged. Before she could think, her talon lashed out, and slammed the chief upon his back. He emitted an _uck_ in surprise.

"Failed you?" She gripped him by the neck, pulled him up to her snout, "We came to _help _you; if you had just let _us _go instead of taking your little army you could have protected your home better!"

"We _trusted _you." He repeated.

Cynder growled in frustration, and let the chief fall a short height. He hit the ground, stumbling back. Several of his tribesmen came to his aid. More shouted at them.

"_Your fault. Curse you!_" They shouted throwing chunks of burnt wood and scorched branches.

Cynder felt the shackles tighten around her wrists. She glimpsed the empty space where Spyro had once stood.

She called his name, turning away even as she was pelted, and chased after him. "Where are you going?"

"They don't want us around, Cynder." He replied, without breaking his pace.

"What…you mean you're just going to turn away?" She strafed beside him, "Spyro, they're _blaming_ you, it's not fair." She caught him by the shoulder.

His hand whipped up beneath hers as he turned, gripping her wrist tightly—almost angrily. He glanced at the shackle as it glinted in the sunbeam. "You act like I'm supposed to be a hero."

"You are a—"

"I _failed_ Cynder." His voice wavered, stifling emotion. "I was supposed to protect them, _all _of them." His grip tightened; he could her pulse against his palm.

"You can't blame yourself."

"I neglected them. If you hadn't come, the rest of them would have been—"

He swallowed his words, and his hand abruptly let go.

"You shouldn't have assaulted the chief like that," he scolded.

She shook her head, "He had it coming. I'll do it again if I have to; he needs to figure out it's _not _your fault, and _you _need to remember that you're—"

His hands came around her snout; her teeth clacked as they were forced together. The chords in his neck flexed as he spoke in the lowest of anger, "I'm no hero."

Regret immediately dilated his pupils, and his hands slowly released. He turned away and began walking, tail carving a trench in the soot. "Leave me alone."

Her breath held as she watched him begin to cross the wasteland, toward the ocean visible in the distance. She felt frightened, shocked, and angry. She eventually mastered the anger and managed to exhale; she forgave him for his harsh actions. But now her anger was replaced with helplessness. She fought against her limbs that so desperately wanted to chase after him.

She stepped to a small charred timber. She hefted it up under chin, and with the strength of her frustration managed to swing it up over her head. For a moment she held it there, allowing the flakes of dead bark to fall over her before hurling it forward with an angry yell. It crashed and broke into another bed of timbers. Embers from hidden coals shot into the air as the timbers adjusted to comfort. She breathed heavily into the acrid air.

"What happened?" She growled, "What happened to you?" She watched his form steadily shrink in the distance. "You've been slipping ever since…" She looked down at the scarred earth, and picked up some of the soot, letting drop into a gentle waterfall that broke as the wind began rolling through.

"He feels he is a failure?" Came a voice from behind.

She turned; Meep stood, his forepaws fidgeting on the ground.

"What do _you _want you little creep," she said neutrally, averting her gaze.

"Please, do not think of my people so sourly."

_What happened to his annoying voice?_ She looked back. "You all think Spyro and I are bad omens. Even you said so when you first met us."

"Meep saw what happened. Spyro did not succeed, but is no failure."

She turned to face him. "You saw what happened?"

Meep nodded vigorously. "Specters attacked the village. Your companion ordered everyone to a large tree, but the chief's daughter would not listen. She is arrogant and stubborn, and argued with your companion, believing the only way to escape was to go up the trees. She ran away and began climbing a very tall tree. Your companion chased after her."

"What happened to her?" Cynder questioned with hope, "Maybe she's safe—maybe she just—"

Meep shook his head. "You saw what happened. Specters set fire to village. Nothing was spared. If he did not rescue her, she was trapped at the top of a burning tree…"

Cynder's rage erupted once again, accented as she kicked up a bed of coals. "I don't believe this! Spyro's done so much—he's risked his life countless times, he's even stopped this world from breaking apart." She lowered her head, "And all because of some stubborn child…"

She felt a hand against her leg. She opened her eyes to see Meep patting her. "Meep hear of him. Meep knows he is great Dragon. Maybe with time he will—"

"Time won't do anything." She glanced over her shoulder, barely able to see him. "It'd take a miracle to make him feel better—he'd have to bring the forest back or something like that."

"Is that possible?" Meep asked.

Cynder stared at him flatly. "…You're joking, right?"

"Like you said, he stopped the _world _from breaking apart." His voice rose. "Perhaps reviving forest not that hard for a Dragon—especially Purple Dragon."

"No, Meep. It doesn't work like that. Even if it's possible it would take _hundreds _ofcrystals to…" Cynder's voice trailed. Something inside her seemed to speak. She listened, and then listened again, and then once more.

"What is wrong—what?" Meep asked, his usual voice returned.

"N…nothing…nothing Meep, but I think…" She looked at the wasteland. "Meep…Do me a favor?"

"Yes, what shall I do—what?"

"Keep an eye on Spyro for a while. I'm going to the Atlawa."

"The Atlawa?"

"There's no time to explain," she hopped, and beat her wings. The ash under her began to swirl. Meep coughed. "Go, but don't let him know you're there."

"Right," Meep said, covering his mouth, "will, will."

"Thank you. I'll be back in a little while."

Cynder flew in the opened sky. The Atlawa were only a short distance away by flight, and she could even see their fires on the plateaus before her. In minutes she was only a few dozen yards away, and they were already gathering, watching as she arrived.

"Welcome," spoke Tyrragor as she alighted upon the soft grass. "What brings you here…alone? Has something happened to your companion?"

"Please, there's not much time to explain—"

"I sense something is wrong. The fires in the forest have alerted us."

"Everyone is fine, but I need to know—your caves, they have crystals right?"

Tyrragor looked at her while the others exchanged glances all round. "Yes, our caves do hold many crystals. The red ones, which you used to revive your companion, among them."

"Tell me, do you have any that are blue?"

"Hmm…Yes. The blue crystals are our most sacred—they were left to us by the Gods. The Arboktu are jealous of them, which is why they are our rivals."

Cynder's entire body felt like lead. "Oh…" she said, "I didn't know. Forget I—"

"Tell me, what do they do for your kind? Do they heal as well?"

"They…" Cynder looked at him, "They increase our power, for a while at least. But I couldn't—"

"Your power—your Magic?"

"Yes," she muttered.

"I see. I believe I understand why you ask for them. We have enough for your ambition."

"No—I couldn't possibly—"

The chief held up his hand. "Cynder," he spoke, "The Arboktu are our rival tribe, but they are important to this world. If you require our sacred crystals, then we will offer them to you."

She gazed into his eyes for a long moment, and then bowed her head. "Thank you. But please, only as much as you can spare."

"We will spare them all." He said resolutely, glancing for just a moment at a little girl sitting by a far fire.

Her mouth opened and then closed; she stared at each of the Atlawa. They were beginning to rush into the caves.

"We will have some of the crystals at the scarred earth within the hour." He turned, and then one eye fell back toward her. "Cynder, do not feel guilty for asking," he said, reading her face. "You have changed from a monster to a hero. Perhaps if we work hard, we—the Atlawa and the Arboktu—might change as well."

With those words he followed his people into the caves. Cynder was left upon the flat grass alone, mothers and children staring for a few more moments before returning to their meals.

She wondered if the chief really understood her idea—but how could he? Even she did not quite understand it. But there was no time; she had to let the Arboktu know, and night was drawing near.

She drifted down to the forest bed, and made her way along the black earth toward the Arboktu. As she passed the line where the trees were half-burned, curling in upon themselves to lick their wounds, she entered the clearing where the tribe of lemurs still resided.

They were recovering slowly, solemnly fixing up improvised shelters. Mothers comforted their children. Two men were bickering in the trees, fighting over a spot for their home. A child was crying incessantly. Even the injured were at work.

The rest of the forest was silent.

As Cynder intruded upon their lands, Moyfi approached her quickly. "You mustn't come here." He said sharply. "You are not welcome in our home—our _second _home."

"Please, Moyfi. I don't want to cause trouble. I came to help—"

A large rock crashed into the dirt beside her; she glanced up into the trees.

"You have _helped_ enough," shrieked the voice of the chief. "We will not tolerate your kind here."

"Then perhaps you will tolerate ours?"

Cynder looked to see Tyrragor approaching, several tribesmen in his wake. They carried with them shards of the blue crystal; two men carried a large bundle of them upon their backs.

"Atlawa! The Black Dragon has brought the Atlawa! They have come to take our children!"

"Be gone sky-sniffers!"

Some of the Atlawa began to shout, "Stay in your trees!"

"Back to your highlands!"

"Come down from the leaves and make us!"

"Everybody _stop!_" Cynder shouted. The tribes fell into silence. "The Atlawa are here to help."

"You are wrong, Dragon," Said Ufufu. "We have been at war with the Atlawa for generations. They would not _dare _help us! They are here to take us from our home, once and for all!"

"Ufufu," Tyrragor spoke quietly, "This Dragon has asked us to bring the blue crystal down to your forest. Surely we would rather take your home before we would ever allow you the prize of the Gods." He held a crystal up, "Your kind has always coveted the crystal; and ours has always kept it from you."

"Then why do you bring it now?" Ufufu hissed.

"Perhaps you should ask Cynder."

"Who is Cynder?"

She felt them gaze upon her.

"You know the Black Dragon's _name_?"

"Cynder is not the Black Dragon." He countered flatly. "It is upon her request that I bring you the blue crystal."

The Arboktu chief continued to gaze at her, and finally he asked, "Why?"

"I'm sorry about all you've lost," she began, "I know I can't bring everything back…but I think I can return your home at least."

"Impossible."

"Sure, I know it sounds that way. But it could work—and only if you and the Atlawa work together."

"Just how does it involve _us_?"

She looked upon the wasteland; the sun had set now, but the ambient twilight still illuminated the scarred earth.

"Lay the crystals upon the burned land. Spread them as much as possible but keep them close together—bury them a little if you can."

"What good would this do?"

"Ufufu," Tyrragor spoke, "I'm not _exactly_ sure, but I promise you whatever this Dragon has in mind, it is worth trying." He turned to Cynder, "Please. Go to your companion. We will follow your instructions. Rest, and come back in the morning. We will be finished by then, provided the Arboktu help."

She returned Tyrragor's nod, and glanced at Ufufu, who was slowly making his way down the tree from which he perched. The two chiefs came face to face, bearing each other's eyes for an extended period. At last Ufufu extended his paw.

"Very well. A truce in our rivalry."

"A truce."

They shook.


	17. Chapter 17

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 17**

Spyro lay against the edge of the land, watching the ocean before him rap upon the cape with—what he saw as—anger. It ebbed with a hiss of dismay, only to come back again, as if trying to push the land away. The ocean poised, arching its back, and charged with great force. The impact misted, splashing up at him from several yards below.

He turned his head as the droplets collided on to his cheek, and then returned his gaze as they beaded and began dripping off his chin. The droplets were black with the soot from his scales, and tainted the grass as they scattered upon the ground.

He gazed upon the open sky as the clouds scudded away from the moon. While the moon's light fell dully on his sullen face. His lips parted for just a moment, and asked with an even tongue:

"How long are you gonna stand there?"

Cynder took a step forward. "I'm not going to go away, if that's what you mean," she said.

He sighed, "Fine."

"I won't try to invade your space either."

His only response was a bit of a grumble.

"…I just want to let you know, I sort of understand."

His only response was a blink.

"I mean…I thought about it and…"

He stood, and stepped closer to the edge of the cape. Spray wafted onto his unflinching, unblinking face. "No matter what way you look at it," he said lowly, black droplets spraying from his jaw, "Whether it's my fault or not; whether I say I fail and you say I don't." Finally, he turned an eye to her, "A life is gone."

She gasped as he disappeared over the edge of the cape. In a single leap she was where he stood, and choked out his name over the sound of her thunderstruck heart. She blinked, searching the water as it slammed against the rocks, calling for him once more.

To her relief, the waves revealed him clinging to the side of the cape. Slowly, he climbed the rocks, pushed against them by the ocean as it slammed into the rocks twice more. At last he was close enough for her to reach; but even as she slapped his arm and torso, insisting to help him up, he ignored. At last he pulled himself upon the grass, and shook his saturated wings.

His scales shimmered, afresh in the moonlight. Yet he still seemed bogged and haggard.

Cynder stepped up to him slowly, and cupped a hand under his chin. She peered into his eyes, and after only a few seconds murmured, "…Bloodshot." She let his chin go.

Guilt crossed his face.

"You would have had a chance if you weren't so tired."

His voice scratched the quiet wind, "Don't you think I know that?"

She quickly squeezed his shoulder. "I didn't mean to make you angry." She said. "I just…I want to understand, like you understood me. I want to know, Spyro, _why_ you won't sleep."

At this he turned away, facing once more toward the ocean. It hissed and foamed, splashing up onto the ground again. "It's nothing." He said.

But Cynder would not accept that—she had to console him, and to do that she needed an answer.

Before he could react, she leapt on him, and brought him to the ground. He tried to struggle, but she hooked her arms under his and rolled to the side, wrapping her legs around his stomach.

"What are you trying to do?" He snapped.

"I tried to be nice, but you forced me," she said, a little deviously. "Spyro, I know something's bothering you—and it's not just the recent accident. It's been bothering you for days."

He finally stopped his thrashing.

"Why haven't you slept?"

"I'm not sleepy," he replied.

"You're lying," she said, "I know it. You've been getting more and more tired every day. You could have probably handled the Specters on the plateau yesterday if you had gotten some rest."

"I'll get over it." He said through gritted teeth.

"You're right," she said, "You will. I'm going to help you get over it, _right now_." She relaxed her hold. "Something's keeping you from sleeping, and I'm going to find out what it is." She laid a hand across one of his. "I'll make it easier," she said, "Does it have to do with Ignitis?"

He tensed just a little; she'd struck a chord. "…It's more than just that," he finally answered.

"Then help me—help me help you. What is it? What's keeping you awake?"

He did not reply at first, she watched him blink from behind his head. "It's stupid. You'll just laugh."

"Spyro," she said, holding both of his hands in hers, "I won't laugh, I promise."

He swallowed.

"Whatever it is, I'll treat it seriously."

"…It's…" He swallowed again. "It's a nightmare." He finally admitted. He expected her to giggle, to laugh and push him away, despite her promise. How could she not? It was childish.

But she did not. She held him more closely, and moved her hands to his eyes. She covered them, shrouding his vision in darkness.

He looked about, glimpsing slivers of the night sky through her fingers.

"Close your eyes," she said. She felt his eyelids blink, and then slowly drop. "What do you see?"

"…Nothing," he stated.

"All right. I want you to imagine your nightmare, and tell me what you see."

She felt his eyelids open, and he reached for one of her hands. "No. This is stupid."

"I didn't laugh," she said, "I'm treating it seriously; the least you can do humor me."

After a moment he let out a defeated sigh and closed his eyes once again. "It's still dark."

"Why is it dark?"

"Because…it just is."

"Work with me, Spyro. Imagine your nightmare—now what do you see?"

"It's…dark but, there's also some red."

"What kind of red?"

"Fire."

"Where are you?—What are you standing on?"

"I'm on a charred rock," he replied, "Surrounded by a sea of fire."

She heard his breath start to quicken.

"Is this all?"

"No," he sighed with recomposing, "The heat—the ash, it's everywhere."

His forehead burned against her palms and his pulse hastened.

"There's nowhere to run; nowhere to fly."

"So there's no way out?"

"No, there isn't," he was panting now.

"Relax Spyro, you're all right."

"No, I'm not. I'm trapped—and there're others."

"Others?"

"In the distance. I can see them, and I'm afraid of them, and they're approaching."

"Who are they?"

He shouted, "I don't know!"

"Calm down Spyro—"

"I'm afraid _he's_ with them."

"Who—Malefor?" As she said the name, Spyro growled and tore her hands away. With deep and heavy breaths he rose, and began pacing back and forth. She watched him pace, for several minutes, until finally he slowed, and then came to a stop. "That sounds frightening," she said with honesty.

"Yeah, right." His voice was rich disbelief. "It's not real. It's a nightmare—it's childish."

"Well…it certainly seems real to you."

"Well it's not. And I shouldn't _let _it seem real."

"Spyro," she said hushed, "come here."

He took meek steps as he came to her, and she rose up only enough to ease him back down to lie beside her. She moved his head to rest upon her shoulder, and her top hand stroked his back, while she held his hand with the other.

"I know it does sound childish, but I can tell it really bothers you. And I'm glad you showed me that it did." She petted him soothingly. "Do you feel better now?"

"Maybe…a little…" he admitted after a pause.

"Good. Now…you're going to sleep tonight." She continued to stroke him, and massaged his shoulder, "If you start having that nightmare, I want you to think of something else—_force _yourself to. Think of…" she paused for a second, "Think of me and Sparx having a serious and thought-provoking conversation."

Spyro laughed. It was quiet, tired, and very faint, but it was there.

She felt it roll onto her shoulder, and spill over her back. Warmth swelled in her chest; he was laughing—and she was the one who allowed it.

"Cynder…I appreciate it but—"

"You're sleeping," she commanded, although she maintained a soothing voice. "I'll get you to sleep, even if I have to sing you a lullaby."

He seemed to shudder. "I'll…I'll try."

"Please, Spyro. You _need _to sleep. _I _need you to sleep. I hate seeing you feel so bad. I want you to be prepared next time someone needs saving, so that you don't end up like this again."

There was a long silence as they lied upon the grass, the ocean crashing relentlessly against the cape. It felt refreshing when the water misted and fell over them.

In the beams of the full moon, a silver band of light in the mist—a colorless rainbow—was painted against the starry sky. The wind carried salt, and overwhelmed the smell of the charred earth. In the distance, listening with strained ears, crickets chirruped.

"Cynder," his voice broke the silence for just a moment. He squeezed her hand so timidly she barely felt it. "Thank you."

"Sweet dreams, Spyro."


	18. Chapter 18

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 18**

"Good morning."

Spyro opened his eyes slowly; the sun made them hurt. A hand covered them.

"More like…good afternoon. Nice job looking right into the sun how'd that feel?"

"Afternoon?" He asked as she moved her hand away.

"Yeah. You slept like a rock all night—I stayed up for a while to make sure. When I woke up you were still sleeping."

He opened his eyes again, after they had adjusted.

It was like he had fallen asleep for only a moment; she still held his hand, was still stroking his back. It felt exposing in the sunlight.

"When did you wake up?" He asked, beginning to rise.

She rose as well, wringing the arm that was holding his hand of pins and needles. "When the sun came up," she replied.

"Have you eaten?"

She shook her head. "You hadn't slept for…I don't even remember how many days now. I didn't want to move and wake you up."

"You should have moved," he said.

"Nah. I was fine. Any bad dreams?" She licked her finger and wiped a smudge of soot off of his cheek.

"No…I didn't dream at all."

"No dream better than bad dream, I guess," she smiled.

He smiled back, and then turned his head to the left.

"Not yet!" Cynder spoke, and forced him to look back toward the ocean.

"Wha—?"

"Don't look yet," she said, "Because…I have to tell you something."

He looked back at her, and then attempted to look toward the charred lands. Again, she held his face still. "All right…" He said warily, "What is it?"

"I know you're really upset about…about what happened yesterday."

"…Not so much…thanks to you."

"Well…still, I know it _bothered _you. And I wanted to help—but I didn't know what you could do that would make up for…the accident."

"What would make up for it? Well…it'd be nice if I could give the Arboktu their home back, for a start. But that's impossible."

Her lips parted in surprise.

"…Wait…you don't mean—?"

"Spyro. Cynder."

The voice came from the charred lands; both Dragons turned their heads, to see a crowd at its edge.

Spyro began to feel a little trapped. Nonetheless, he stood as tall as he could, and looked at Ufufu, whom was standing next to Tyrragor. "Ufufu," he spoke, his voice beginning to catch in his throat, "Your daughter—I—"

"Spyro, please," The Arboktu chief raised his hand. "I know…I know that you did everything in your power to help not only my daughter…but all of my people. It is unfortunate that what has happened…has happened. But, despite my loss," he exhaled, glancing to his side, "I am glad that my people are safe—and they are safe, thanks to you and Cynder."

After this statement there was pragmatic pause.

Tyrragor took in a breath, and spoke. "Spyro, yesterday your companion came to us, and asked a peculiar favor of our tribe."

The Dragons looked at one another; him curiously, her somewhat bashfully.

"Her request," the Atlawa chief continued, "has changed many things between the Atlawa and the Arboktu. You will notice that we stand here not as rivals, but as companions—just as yourselves."

"You see, young Dragons," Ufufu began, "Our tribes have begun to relate you to ourselves. Spyro, you are the Purple Dragon. You are a hero and a protector."

"I—" He tried to retort.

"And Cynder," Tyrragor continued, cutting him off, "You were once the Black Dragon, but you have become something different. And though you may still possess dark powers, your heart no longer uses them for purposes of malice." Another pause; "You see, you two embody our relationship."

"And we would like you to know," Ufufu took over, "that even if your idea does not work, you have dissolved a barrier set up generations ago. And, thanks to you, perhaps that will mean a better world for the forest and the Tall Plains."

"That's…that's very terrific," Spyro said, confusion mounting within him, "But…what do you mean if _it _doesn't work?"

"Spyro…that's what I was about to tell you…"

The tribes parted, revealing behind them a magnificent site. Hundreds—thousands—of blue crystals bounced rays of sunlight all amidst the tremendous black of the wasteland. Like pieces of the very sky had fallen to the ground to caress and heal the wounds of the earth.

"Spyro…you said that if you could give the Arboktu their home back…" Her voice trailed.

"Cynder that's…that's impossible, I can't do it." He looked at the field of crystals, twinkling like stars sprinkled in a dying sky.

"You brought the world back from destruction," she protested.

He turned to her, ignoring the destruction. "That was—that was because of the crystal left behind by Malefor." He shook his head vehemently, "Nothing like that can ever happen again—even with these crystals…"

On each shoulder, Spyro felt a hand: One from Tyrragor; the other from Ufufu. He felt other hands rest upon his sides, hands from members of each tribe. They were laid comfortingly, pleadingly.

"Purple Dragon—Spyro—We believe in you."

"We all believe in you."

"But I…I _can't_—"

"How will you know if you do not try?"

"Prove it to us, Spyro."

Spyro turned, and the hands fluttered away like leaves. He faced toward the maimed grounds, crossing the yards of lush grass that bordered the barren world. As he walked, Cynder was right beside him. "Even you know this is impossible," he said to her. "You know…I'm going to fail." His voice was beginning to sound just as it had the night before—full of doubt and self-loathing.

"Spyro…" She trailed, but then she darted in front of him and stood her ground. "No, Spyro, you won't. Everyone believes in you—Tyrragor, Ufufu, me, _everyone_."

"And if I let them all down?"

Cynder put a hand upon his shoulder, and as she did so there came a crack from her wrist; the shackle broke and dropped to the ground. "Trust me Spyro," she continued, ignoring the fetter, "no matter what, the people here won't think any less of you if you fail. They just want you to try—just try."

He took a breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. "All right…I'll try."

She quickly hugged him. "Want me with you?"

"…I have to do this alone."

"I understand." She disengaged, and walked past him toward the crowd; "Everyone, move to the edge—get back, he's going to try."

There came a murmur from the crowd, and Spyro looked back for just a moment.

The eyes. The eyes looked upon him. Hope, trust, excitement. With each pair his doubt grew. This was pointless—impossible at best.

_We believe in you_.

He sighed, pushing past the doubt. What if it happened? He would be happy—he would redeem himself, if only a little. After all, it was his fault that forest…

He gritted his teeth. It was his fault. He couldn't fail—if he failed, he was responsible for _everything_.

His talons gouged gingerly into the weakened, dead earth. He began to breathe evenly, deeply. He felt the eyes behind him staring at first, but then they faded away. He heard the chirrup of the living forest far away, but that too faded into obscurity. He closed his eyes, and pushed his will…

Cynder watched as Spyro, a couple dozen yards away, went through the motions of his magic. To the others it must have looked awkward; he looked as if he were acting melodramatically. He curled his head and tail, his body trembling for several moments. Then, he exploded with movement and stood like a statue; his nose pointed to the sky and his wings paralleled the ground.

And at first he stood so, amidst the ash and dead coals, and there was silence. For so long there was silence, and the people beside her began to rustle. She hushed them with the help of the chiefs.

At last, a blue crystal at his feet began to glow; then another next to it, and then all of their neighbors. Like tendrils of light they began to glow, radiating outwardly, Spyro at the epicenter. The ground began to rumble, dust began to rise and the air began to sing; a single note, high pitched but soothing to the ears.

Breaths were held as they watched the light grow. The ground rippled and trembled as the soot shook and displaced. Even the water behind them became calm as the land began to roar, louder and louder.

The note began to rise, higher and higher as the crystals shimmered, their light undulating. The crowd began to become unsteady; the sight was both amazing and frightening.

But then it became terrible. Spyro shouted, as if in pain, and a crystal shattered; the song faltered. Another crystal broke—and then another. One by one, they cracked and fell apart, their beautiful light dying into blackness. Spyro yelled; a bloodcurdling shout that sent the spine to rigor.

Cynder could take no more. She charged forward onto the soot, her feet finding solid ground only because of her desire to be next to him. Around her the hollow _pop _of the crystals was dizzying. At last she was beside him; held him as his shoulders collapsed.

The tremors slowed, and then finally died.

The crowd began to gather. They stepped upon the barren soil, and encircled the Dragons. The chiefs stepped forward.

"Is he all right?" They asked in unison.

"Spyro…Spyro please…" Cynder held him. He was motionless, his breaths slow.

"If he does not come to," Tyrrador spoke, "Then we were fools for ever pushing him to do such a thing."

"I am sorry, Cynder—we all are."

"No…it's not your fault," she said, "Please…Spyro. Wake up."

"Will he be all right?"

"I don't know…" she said, looking up at the chiefs, "He's breathing but—I think he exhausted himself. He hasn't slept for days—he only slept last night. And he just woke up. I think…I think it was too much…"

"We should have waited."

"Our desperation caused this."

"Please…Spyro, if you can…please open your eyes…"

The air pulsed; and Spyro did open his eyes.

"No…_no_ Spyro!" Cynder began to speak, but it was too late.

His body became consumed in a purple aura; his eyes became white and the very air around him began to ripple and distort.

She let go, and he stood with his head low.

Cynder turned to the encircling crowd. "Get back!" She yelled, "Get back to the grass, hurry!"

They ran, with fear and uncertainty they ran. Cynder took to the air and grazed the ground, picking up an Arboktu that had stumbled into the soot. Just as the last had stepped upon the grass, there came the sound of thunder that broke the very sky.

All eyes turned to see the Purple Dragon, enshrined in the purple aura. The skies dimmed, and he became brighter; so bright that some turned away, squinting their eyes. But Cynder stared on, her heart racing to her throat.

The Purple Dragon arched his back once more, his nose to the air, and a roar, even louder than before, erupted from his maw. With it came a blast of light, and a second report of shattering thunder.

Soot plumed into the air, rolling past the crowd and swirling into the ocean. Despite the animosity three still kept their eyes on the Dragon, and as they watched they could not believe their eyes.

The crystal shards held his purple light, rising to the air as he did. Heat lightning chained from shard to shard, and they pulsated brightly as it passed. Once every shard, no matter how small, was alit like a candle, Spyro spun once in the air, extending his wings and arms, and then clapped them downward. The shards fell toward the earth like meteors, burrowing deep into the soot.

From the ground came an eruption that spread across the ash. Tendrils of blue began weaving together, sprouting from the earth and burrowing back in. As the tendrils did so, spiraling stalks began rising to the sky, reaching ever higher. From the stalks spread limbs; they began to hold together with one another, forming a lattice of spidery branches. From those branches, leaves began to form like the feathers on outstretching wings.

Slowly the winds began to die; slowly the light began to fade; and slowly, eyes began to open. A collective gasp emanated from the crowd as the spectacle was taken in. Between the mundane greenery and dark trees was a crystalline forest that looked ghostly and ethereal, even in the light of the midday sun.

It had happened so fast that everyone had forgotten their fear and anxiety—everyone but one Dragon, who rushed into the forest as fast as she could.

"Spyro!" She called, "Spyro!"

She passed by the trees so easily, like walking through a field of wheat. And yet they felt solid against her hands, even slightly cool. She passed a low-hanging branch, and the leaves tickled her scalp with the softness of a swan's down.

She came, at least, upon a clearing wide. In the center, with his shoulders slouched and a tired look upon his face, was Spyro.

He seemed to ignore her as she ran to him, placing both hands on his shoulders and embracing. "Oh Spyro," she muttered, "By the ancestors…"

"Cynder…I have to tell you something."

She retracted her embrace, and looked upon his sullen eyes. "What is it Spyro? You've done a miracle—why do you still look so—?"

"I…" He looked at her. "The Specters attacked. I was tired—and startled. In the darkness that surrounded us, I started…to see the nightmare." He looked down at her feet, "I blew fire. It caught onto a tree…Lu saw me, and away in fear."

"Spyro…" She said gently, stroking his cheek. "That doesn't make me think any less of you. You made up for that much by bringing their forest back—an even better forest by the looks of it."

He turned away from her comforting hand, pacing three steps away. "I can't bring his daughter back."

As he took to the air, she stayed behind only for a moment. She realized just how heavily it felt upon him. Also that nothing would ever lift that heaviness; nothing that she could do—nothing that he could do.

She knew exactly how he felt, and as she rose into the air she did not look back to the tribes that celebrated and rejoiced in song. But as she caught up to him, she saw something else upon him.

He was, at least, content.

* * *

The sky began to set as Spyro and Cynder sat beside a warm fire, their stomachs full. They had crossed the sea, but a storm buffering their path discouraged them from flying any more, and it would be too dark to walk. They had barely said a word until now, and sleep was coming over them, especially for Spyro.

"Will you be able to sleep tonight?"

"I think so."

She put a comforting arm over him. "Sure you don't need a lullaby?"

"No," he grumbled embarrassedly, resting his arm upon her.

"I'm proud of you," She said quietly.

"…Why?"

"Because, you tried."

He took in a breath, and let it go. "I still feel guilty."

"I understand."

"But…I don't want to feel so sad."

"I don't want you to feel sad either, Spyro."

He closed his eyes, and turned his head away from the fire.

She looked upon him for a few moments, watched his eyelids twitch as drifted ever slowly into sleep. The fire began to die, and as it did she moved closer to him. The cold winds and thunderclaps from the storm tumbled over them. She closed her eyes.

_Your actions worried me today. You would have failed if you had harmed the chief._

_I'm sorry. _

_You will _not_ fail me._

_No, I won't. I still managed to get it off—pulling the tribes together was a nice touch, don't you think?_

_Yes, just one more and then we'll be free…_

_Free._

_And with their hearts so soft and gullible, we'll strike, you and I. I have seen your power, it has grown so much, especially with my generous gift._

_It has, but I still can't compare to _him, _you won't believe what he did. _

_I know what he did. You need not worry; _his_ heart is the most gullible of all._

_I suppose you're right. Hearts are gullible. So very gullible… _


	19. Chapter 19

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 19**

Cynder was startled mid-sleep. She woke from a haze; a bolt of lightning flickered across the sky. It illuminated, for a second, Spyro standing a few feet away, in a worried posture.

"What's the matter?" She asked groggily, approaching him. "Did you have the nightmare again?"

"No…Cynder, do remember what Tyrragor said?"

"…What Tyrragor said? About what?"

"About the Specters; something about Black Rain."

Cynder purged her mind. Something to that effect did surface. "I do—he said they came after the Black Rains…and the Black Pools."

Another tier of lightning peeled; half of Spyro's face caught the flash. He was staring at her.

"Wait a minute," she mumbled, her mind flipping through memories; "Didn't your parents say something about rain and then the pools?"

"Something's not right. Can't you feel it?"

She stared into the working storm so far away. He was right; something instinctive caught her, like a tiny ant biting the tip of her tail…

"Spyro, that storm is right over Warfang."

When the lightning peeled, he was already in the air—she darted after him. Adrenaline surged through them both as they crossed the sky, their wings bludgeoning the air. As they met the fray of the storm, turbulent winds threatened to tear them from their course.

But they held steadfast in their direction, wary that at any moment a stray bolt of electricity could send them hurdling to the ground—a risk both were willing to take, if only one of them would make it to Warfang.

The clouds roared above, tumbling over one another and pluming downward spitting ink and oil.

Dragon City stood, albeit withered. Water flowed in streams across the outer walls and ramparts, cascading through the crenellations and pooling like a moat about the city. Inside the walls, in the heart of the fortress, ambiguous shadows were darting about, tiny as ants and indistinguishable.

The Dragons descended upon the city, however not before a hand of lightning struck between them. Cynder felt her scales tingle and saw speckles of light crackle about her eyes. She immediately turned to see Spyro, who was already facing her. Once both were sure the other was all right, they continued to descend.

* * *

"Hunter, the Southern Stronghold needs reinforcement!" Terrador's voice boomed.

The Cheetah stood with a Specter at the edge of his sword. He pulled the blade with a flick of his wrist and the mongrel scattered into a puddle of ink. Heeding Terrador with only a small nod, he headed to the south.

They would not last a second day at this rate.

"Roland," Terrador said through the thunder.

The Manweersmall scurried to the Dragon, "Sir?"

"We're nearing the end. There is no way this siege will turn to our favor…I want all of your people underground."

"But Terrador, we would lose Warfang if we—"

"I would rather lose Warfang than your lives, Roland." The Dragon's voice carried across the thunder.

"Surely there is _something _we can do?"

There came a staccato of shouts from the Northern Gate; the chorus of battle.

Mason, Ignitus's aide-de-camp, stumbled to the ground from a marathon run, lifting the brim of his helmet to look up at the green Dragon, turned black from the rains.

"Terrador—we've lost the Southern Stronghold. The creatures—they've broken through!"

"Roland! Send word to the others; we're retreating to the ground."

"But Sir—"

"_Now!_"

With a squeak, Roland darted through the black mist toward the Northern Gate; along the way, he witnessed Volteer driving orders to the grounded aerial units. This gate had a section that was under maintenance construction. The Moles here were using the raw material as an improvised weapon. At certain intervals, rocks and wood were dropped or thrown over the wall, presumably crashing upon the awaiting horde of Specters on the other side.

"Volteer, Sir!" Roland shouted to the Dragon. At first the Dragon did not hear, but his insistent baying eventually garnered attention.

"Who addresses me?" The Dragon snapped, and then peered down. "Well, if it isn't Terrador's aide-de-camp. I sincerely apologize for my apprehensive demeanor however you may have witnessed the strife in which we are—"

"We're retreating," Roland interrupted curly, "all Moles are to head underground. Evacuate the civilians—"

"Has Terrador given up?" A thunderous shock resounded from across the sky that loomed before them.

"Volteer, they're beginning to break through!" One of the moles shouted from the rampart. "We've run out of ammunition!"

The tarnished-yellow Dragon's eyes went dull. He looked to Roland. "Very well, I shall commence retreat and send word to Cyril at the Eastern wall. Would you be inclined to head to the Southern Stronghold and assist in the evacuation of the recently distressed?"

"Yes sir!" Roland hollered, and began running. He wished he had done more cardio—he pulled his trousers up a notch as he huffed with steam, his gut undulating with every step. He swallowed dryly; it was more than two miles to the south and would take him an hour to get there on foot.

But his luck struck. There, on the side of the street, under the humble light of a swaying lantern, a child's bicycle lay sideways. He darted to it, and lifted it up, hoisting his weight over the seat. It felt uncomfortable to his rear, but beggars cannot be choosers.

He began to pedal, at first uneasily in the slick roads. The water rippled as it was disturbed. It was only half an inch deep, where it would flow to canals cut deep and away to prevent flooding of the underground city and temple. But still, all it would take was a minor slip and—

His side crashed into the water; his breath left him and his right arm went numb for a whole a minute as he lay stunned. Water dribbled off of his face, splashing onto his tongue and gums. It tasted bitter, and strongly so that it jarred him awake. He flexed his injured arm until he was able to form a fist, then rose to his feet.

No time to lose; he began to pedal before he was even situated. The water in his wake rose behind him like a pair of wings as he careened down the streets, swiveling and swerving to prevent another fall.

After the work of only ten minutes he could see the glow of fire and the sounds of shouting and angry yells. The Stronghold was a dying fight. No doubt Hunter was struggling to recover the momentum; his people came as reinforcements, for they too had noticed the movements of the original threat. The Orcs and Grublins that originally caught their attention the night before were either a distraction, or a precursor to this chaos. That first battle lasted only half a day and was won relatively easily.

But then the rains—the rains changed everything.

His lungs burned and a continuous stream of smoke bellowed from his mouth as he increased his speed. He could see the battle twenty yards ahead—ten—five, he continued, and abruptly turned the bike sideways. He skidded across the wet stone, spraying black oil into the air; he slammed onto the ground, recoiling. His side burned from the friction, but his action caught the attention he needed.

"Roland!" A speckled hand whisked him to his feet, "what are you doing here?" Hunter said; his voice was oddly calm.

"Terrador has changed his tactics," The Mole panted, "We're losing the Northern and Western Gates, and the Eastern wall is going to retreat."

"Then we must get back to the underground—we must get the civilians to safety."

Roland nodded furiously.

"Please, I need your assistance; the civilians are in that building," he pointed to a bar, "It's been reinforced with stone and mortar, and there is only one way out. I will go help them—but I need you to hold the defense until they've escaped—can you handle that, Captain?"

"I—I'm not a C-Ca—"

"There's no time, here."

Roland felt the handle of a heavy blade enter his paws. Before he could react, the Cheetah was already halfway to the bar. To his right amid the light of the embers, his comrades were shouting orders. The twang of wet strings came to his ears as a volley of arrows was released. Specters that had climbed over the walls were pushed back, some falling into the city only to burst into clouds.

"Regroup!" Roland shouted, hefting the sword into the air; "We must go on the defensive. You, right flank, retreat to the rear, set up a phalanx. Prepare to fire on my command; forward unit redirect attention away from the civilians, lure them to the right!"

The crowd paused, staring at him through the rain, confusion on their faces.

"_Move!_" He shouted, striking a pit of fire beside him. The embers rose in the air and at the display they heeded his orders. The right flank broke and charged beside him, passing him with their ballistae and bows. He ordered the ballistae to the back and the bowmen in the front; they would alternate fire, bows twice, ballistae once, then bows again as they reloaded.

The forward unit took position at the right flank; the lack of attention allowed for Specters to break through the opening in the wall. They were aggressively pushed back at first by the forward unit—until the fire began to spread.

Hungrily it flew across the oily water, spouting steam as it roared to life, unabated by the rain. The forward unit backed away. Roland charged into the fray, oversized sword held forward in his paws. The ballistae fired, chunks of burning wood fell like stars upon the wall, igniting more fires.

Roland felt the sword impale two—no three—Specters. He shook free from the haze they left behind, struggling to breath clean air. But all too quickly he realized they were being overrun; the Specters that poured in through the breaches in the wall were mounting by the dozens. One of his brethren fell victim to several that leapt upon him all at once; Roland forgot his fear and charged, sword poised above his shoulder.

He swung, the momentum carrying him to the ground; the sword clattered and slid through the water. Roland gripped his fellow comrade and pulled him to safety from the pluming smoke.

"Fall back men!"

Roland looked to see Hunter, recovering his sword.

"Fall back before we are—"

Six—eight? Roland could not count how many of the small mongrels pounced upon the single Cheetah. He looked to the heart of the city, and his blood ran cold. Behind them was fire; ahead of them, chattering and taunting, stood a street-wide phalanx of the demons. The artillery tried their best to fend the frontlines off—but it was no use.

They charged _en_ _masse_. A banshee's shriek echoed across the air amidst a crack of thunder. The ground shook as something heavy impaled the earth between them and the horde. Roland found himself looking up at the sky, flecks of light dancing across his eyes. He rose to his feet, expecting to see the mob of Specters surrounding him.

But no—they were backing away, as if in fear. Roland glanced more to the right, and saw a bevel in the brick of the street; water pooled in a small crater, wherein rested a green rock, pulsating with light.

He looked to his comrades; they were backing away in fear as well. Hunter, however, stepped forward.

"Everyone, prepare to charge." He stated with a low voice that just barely reached all ears.

"Tell me you're joking," Roland spat, ink dribbling from his whiskers, "If we charge now they'll swarm us; it's suicide!"

"Wait just a moment, Roland. You will see that fortune has actually blessed us—in fact, this entire siege has just taken a wide turn in our favor."

"What do you mean? We're _doomed!_"

Just as he spoke the words, the rock at the center of the crater cracked. A puff of green smoke bellowed from it, and abruptly a fissure erupted, radiating outward toward the Specters. They dove aside, avoiding the displaced earth.

Roland gazed open-mouthed as the rock began to bloom like a flower, revealing two figures; one purple, the other black.

"They have returned," Hunter spoke.


	20. Chapter 20

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 20**

"Shouldn't we help them?" Roland panted as they raced across the streets, one of the last in the mad dash to the center of the city; to the gates of the underground.

"Spyro and Cynder will be fine, they seem to have dealt with these creatures before."

The timing could not have been any more perfect. Without any instruction or acknowledgement the two Dragons began fighting—almost dancing. They had charged forward, disappearing into a veil of black smoke as they felled the creatures as quickly as they had swarmed. They had opened they way for the group of struggling troops and civilians to get through.

Roland looked up as he saw the two Dragons fly overhead; a tangible hope surged within the group as they cut past, guiding the way and delivering them to safety. It would only be a matter of minutes before he and his fellow Moles were securely underground—although he found that dissatisfied him. He wanted to be up here, in the open. He'd spent all of two days watching the battles, and now that he tasted the thrill it was addicting.

The three Guardians could be seen as they turned the corner to the main road, civilians guarded on all sides by the soldiers. Roland watched as the Dragons that rescued them flew to Guardians.

"Not much farther now," he shouted to his group. Despite the presence of all the Dragons, they were becoming frightened. He slowed down, mixing into the group of innocents, running beside them, offering encouragement.

He was entrusted with their safety and he would see them to the underground.

A small boy stumbled and fell, his body sliding against the wet stone. Roland rushed to him and helped him to his feet. His legs trembled. Roland lifted the shivering boy onto his shoulders, and once again took pace.

"Hurry! The passage is open!" The Guardians beckoned their group—the last group—into the gaping door that led into the belly of the cool earth.

As he passed the threshold, Roland let the boy down and hurried to the door. Thunder and lightning illustrated the Dragons as they began closing stone doors together. He gripped the handle on the inside and, though it did not amount to much, began pulling with several other soldiers.

The world became quiet about them as they were plunged into the comforting darkness. Roland looked behind him to see dozens and dozens of faces staring back; some were dirty, some were scratched, some were crying. All were frightened.

Roland retrieved a cold torch from on the ground and struck it against the rough lighting stone upon the wall.

"Attention everyone," he spoke, quelling his nervousness, "We are safe in here, but we must continue on. The Dragons have given us the opportunity to go underground, for they fear the city may be taken by the creatures."

"Then why are we here?" Someone shouted, "If they take over the city, they'll find us eventually. We're sitting ducks!"

"Please everyone remain calm!" Mason shouted to prevent the murmurs from rising. "We will not let that happen. We are safe here; there is a cavern just a short walk down. We will gather there for now." He lit a torch as well. "I will take the rear; Roland," he turned toward Terrador's aide-de-camp, "Will you lead us?"

"Y—yes," he stuttered, "Come; you, you and you," he pointed to three soldiers," "with me at the front, grab torches; the rest of you also take torches and spread among the people, keep them calm and comfortable."

"Yes sir!" A unified salute and the torches became lit.

* * *

"Young ones, you have returned," Cyril said ecstatically.

"Spyro, Cynder, I wish I could say welcome home." Terrador spoke forlornly, "But right now we're in serious danger."

"We've come to help." Spyro said assertively.

"I'm afraid there isn't anything left to help," Volteer said quietly, "Look—they come over the walls and through the breaches. In a matter of moments Warfang will be lost."

"No," Spyro shook his head defiantly.

"I admire your zeal, young ones," Terrador intoned rationally, "But…this enemy is nothing like we have seen before. They are numerous, and they attack so swiftly not even we can handle them."

"We don't even know what—or who—is master of them and orchestrating this assault." Volteer pointed out. "It _seems_ random and yet the strategy they invoke also shows signs of aplanned—"

"It's not random," Cynder interrupted with a low voice, speaking for the first time.

Spyro glanced at her, "It isn't?"

"Well—" she looked a bit shocked, as if she did not mean to be heard, "someone has to be controlling these things, right? Why else would they attack Warfang? Maybe there's a method behind the Dark Pools—maybe the _rain _is controlling everything."

"That could be," Spyro said, chewing on the idea, "The Atlawa and Arboktu _both _said that the Black Rains started everything; so did my parents."

"If what you say is indeed correct then if the storm, which is the source of the Pools and thus the source of these creatures, were to be somehow negated—"

"We stop the Specters," Spyro finished. "But how do you stop a storm?"

"Well that's simple," Volteer chimed, "Simply disperse the clouds and the storm will become unstable."

"But how would we disperse the clouds?" Cyril inquired, "That would require an enormous amount of wind; perhaps even a small tornado."

Terrador noticed Spyro's eyes lose focus for a moment, a sign he was deep in thought, and then refocus. "Perhaps you two have an idea?"

"Let us handle the storm," he spoke. "Cyril, Volteer; we'll need your help. Can you direct the tornado once it's formed?"

"Most certainly," Volteer replied with a prideful upward jab of his snout.

"But Terrador," Cyril said with a smirk, "we'll need you to handle the little whelps and distract them while we are in position."

"Hmph, must I always get the grunt work?" His foot collided with the ground with resolution. "Very well. I will handle the Specters. Good luck my brothers—and to you, young ones."

The Dragons dispersed. Volteer and Cyril made their way to opposite sides of the city, hovering just above the height of the rooftops. Terrador felt his nerves burn with every flicker of light that crossed the sky.

"Hunter," Terrador spoke, "Are you sure you will not go underground with the others?"

The Cheetah stood nearby on a rooftop, facing away from—but aware of—the boiling herd of Specters that would be upon them in just seconds. "My sword fights with you."


	21. Chapter 21

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 21**

Cynder followed Spyro as he skimmed the ground, turning into a short alleyway. At the end were several beds of green crystals. He pressed his hand upon one of the beds, and she followed suit on another.

"I hope you're right about the storm controlling the Specters," he said, "Where'd you get that idea anyway?"

"It doesn't matter," she muttered, glancing to him very quickly. The green light began to radiate from the crystals as they hummed. "This idea of yours, what exactly are we going to do?"

"_We're_ not doing anything; I'm going alone." He stated with absolution.

She anticipated it. "What makes you think that?" She replied with a snarl.

"The closer we get to the thunderheads the greater the chance of getting struck—I'm the only one that can absorb the lightning."

Her head sank and she closed her eyes; a full thirty seconds passed before she finally sighed. She spoke so low Spyro could barely hear; "Then just let me say one thing…"

The ground pulsed as Spyro dove to the air but he reacted far too slowly; in the flash of lightning she had taken off and was already several feet ahead. He roared against the black mist that fell from her wings, commanding her to stop. He rapped the wind ferociously and began to weave his body through the air like a Wyvern in attempts to catch up to her.

She resisted her urge to look back, to see how close he was getting. She heard his shouts, his concern blended into anger and fright. She would slow just before reaching the lattice of lightning that danced across the clouds.

The storm was angry, as if it knew their plan. The individual clouds began to coalesce into one formidable monster. It roiled and bellowed, as if beckoning the two Dragons into its maw. Pellets of hail began to fall, thick as walnuts, that whizzed by with the sound of a passing bullet.

The hail hurdled toward the ground, careening this way and that from the crisscrossing winds. Volteer shielded his eyes from the plummeting rocks of black ice. They shattered against his scales into a dust of shrapnel and glinting specs of glass.

The yellow dragon gazed into the cumulus clouds that began to merge into one. This was no normal storm; it was vivacious, malignant and sentient. It was keen on them and viciously opposed to them.

His Brother seemed to observe the same; if not, then Cyril most definitely understood more deeply the behavior of the storm. The sky began to light up; gone were the intermittent tendrils of lightning and claps of thunder. Now it was a continuous wrath, a boiling ocean of sound and light.

"Ancestors," he spoke in whisper, "Guide them through unbranded and deliver them back unscathed."

* * *

Hunter shouted as his blade cut through the air; the chime of hail sang through the flourish of its wake as the metal shattered the droplets to dust.

The Specter that stood before him flinched, and began to writhe as the blade fell across its torso. It tumbled backward, spasmodically twitching as it sublimated to the acrid smoke.

The silver light licked another across the neck, and tapped a third upon the shoulder. The Cheetah's feet shuffled across the water that rose almost to his ankles, determined not to lose his footing. More took the place of the fallen; more to slake the blade.

Terrador, who stood as a giant among the intricate buildings, huffed as the creatures leapt from the rooftops to clamber onto his body. He swiped at them, turning most into dust. But with each volley several managed to slip through his fingers, almost literally, and take hold of his scales.

They scuttled up his shoulders and some were already at the summit of his scalp; he was well aware and tried to shake them off, but they clung and began biting. Their teeth were no match for Dragon scales but what little powers of the shadow they possessed could breach any hide.

If it were only one, or even less than a dozen, Terrador could tolerate it; but now more than twenty, perhaps thirty, were digging into his scalp. It felt like dozens of knives slipping between the cracks of his scales, piercing into the gentle tissue protected beneath.

Hunter paused in his observation for just a moment to fell two of the mongrels with one twitch of his arm before he took to the nearest rooftop. He leapt into the air, scaling the first set of low roofs like stairs.

As he sprinted his sword glinted left and right; unobservant Specters keeled over with screeches and hisses, and those that did spot him retreated, and began to gather behind him.

Hunter did not break his pace at all, climbing rooftops he circled until he was at a height just above Terrador's back. He paused for only a moment as Terrador moved slightly away, but then the Dragon backed up, and Hunter took his chance.

The Specters were no match for the Cheetah's acceleration; they dove at him, only to slide upon the slick rock and tumble over the other end of the roof. A fog began to form at the base of that side of the building.

Terrador felt something upon him different from the Specters; it landed lightly and began moving up his spine in a matter of seconds. Almost immediately the sting and ache began to balk; one by one he could feel the knives of pain dampen. Something lurched upon the top of his scalp, and his eye caught the body of a Specter, hissing a pleasant decrescendo as it fell past.

"Hunter?"

"Do not mind me, Terrador," the Cheetah replied between the shouts of his sword, "Keep them at bay and I will take care of the stragglers."

The Dragon's teeth gleamed in the ashen glow of the heated lightning; "Gladly," he replied, as a wall of Specters leapt to the air.

* * *

Cynder felt Spyro's arms come around her like a vice; all about the sky was alit in ethereal glow and alive with deafening percussion. She felt her body tingle as Spyro enveloped her with his wings. The electricity intensified at specific points every moment, tickling about for access. Despite the storm's best to get at them Spyro kept it at bay.

As the ringing in her ears subsided, Cynder managed to open her eyes; sunlight fell upon her cheeks and forehead as she stared over Spyro's shoulder toward the glowing lantern of the sky. It seemed so far away, rising above the violet sea of frothy clouds.

Spyro's wings stretched outward, blocking the sun from her eyes. Meekly, she let go, and treaded the winds with her own wings. He stared down at her with a mix of expressions; relief, disapproval, dissatisfaction. But eventually they faded away.

"It's beautiful up here," she said, her voice very soft from the lack of air.

"We should get started," Spyro replied curtly.

Cynder swallowed; the back of her throat stung. She gave a timid nod. She took proffered hands and helped balance him as his feet rose into the air. She met his eyes, and blinked as their noses touched for just a moment.

Then his body straightened and all joins locked parallel.

Beyond his face she could see his legs and tail pointed to the sky, gently swaying; it was dizzying to see his feet "standing" upon the empty blue.

He stared down at the foamy clouds, his elbows twitching as he fought to keep himself balanced against her palms. After several moments he finally had purchase, and their arms were almost completely still.

"You ready?" She asked.

"Spin with the wind. On three;" he counted, and upon the mark they began to turn. Their wings slicked against their bodies as they began to twirl, the wind around them becoming disturbed. Spyro watched as the black clouds below them began to protest. "Faster."

"You got it…"

The sun began to whirl in Cynder's eyes, becoming not a solid circle but a blurry streak as their dance heightened tempo. It was surprisingly easy to keep him balanced despite the movement.

The air around them became mixed; she stirred the warm clouds up and as they rose he chilled them rapidly, sending the cold air back down. The convection began to make droplets of frost cling to their scales, but they kept ever faster.

Lightning began to pick up as the storm resented their action; Spyro shouted to Cynder, and she replied that she would not stop, despite her toes beginning to tingle.

His eyes narrowed but she ignored him; and closed hers to keep the sun from blinding her.

Below them Spyro saw the clouds beginning to swirl; they began to roll and turn, losing their resistant hold on stability. Like the breaching of a dam the storm shattered, suddenly mushrooming around them, rising and shrouding the sunlight. The Cyclone rose and spread, with them in the eye. Lightning shot all about them on chords, from one side of the cyclone to the other; once it passed by them so closely that Cynder was stunned for just a moment. She regained herself and stabilized their gyration.

And then the air about them left their lungs.

Cynder's eyes opened only just long enough to see Spyro reaching for her, chasing after as she drifted toward the earth with terrible speed. Light flashed in her eyes; her tongue began to spasm and her limbs curled inward, outside of her command.

The turbulence peacefully subsided into darkness.


	22. Chapter 22

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 22**

A plume of black cascaded to the ground like a waterfall. Hail continued to crack and shatter into tiny bullets, tinkling meekly against the harsh tremors that rumbled through the wind.

Terrador felt soft feet shuffling about across his scalp. It was not quite an awkward feeling, but it certainly was odd.

Hunter's sword had been taken from him several moments ago; an aggressive mongrel dared to cut his hand and took his sword with it as it fell to the ground. But that would not stop the Cheetah from helping the Dragon; he still had claws and, on one occasion, teeth.

They struggled on, but the numbers were increasing and their energy was beginning to wilt; Terrador looked over to his Brothers, they stood uninhibited far away. At least their struggle was performing to intent.

Then, as Terrador's hand swept across a rooftop, dispelling it of the Specters which clambered upon it, and as his feet continued to quell the mob attempting to take him from underneath, the sky suddenly crackled.

The Specter's balked as if visibly stricken.

Once Terrador felt the winds change, he knew it was only moments away.

Hunter felt his whiskers tingle as the air pitched. He stood for just a second, but that second cost him his balance. Three creatures ran into him bodily, causing him to shuffle his feet to regain balance; he fell off of Terrador.

The Dragon's talon was swift to catch the Cheetah and dispatch the demons that came with him, "Your part is over," he spoke and set the Cheetah upon the ground. Even as he spoke many of the mongrels began clambering up to his scalp once again by the dozens.

"But they're—"

"I will be all right Hunter, you get to shelter."

Hunter looked up at the sky; the clouds above were bubbling like the broth of an evil cauldron. The two Dragons that stood at polar ends of the city looked up to the sky, their arms ready to rise into the air.

"_Go!_"

Hunter quickly darted into a nearby building, which was only half-standing but secure; it was built directly into the transverse walls of the city with little chance of detaching from the wind.

As the Cheetah watched, he quelled the impulse to help the great Earth Dragon only a few yards away from him. The mongrels were festering on him like a plague; a walking black fungus upon his back.

Yet the Dragon ignored the little demons and simply became entranced. A delicate but commanding light began to emanate from the Dragon; it was the color of the midday grass, and the air about him even began to take upon that very smell. There came a shifting in the earth as the Dragon's front hands rose, and as he set them upon the ground the stones beneath the Cheetah's feet seemed to clench together like a fist.

"My brothers," Terrador spoke with a whisper, "It is your turn now."

As if one cue the sky broke; brilliant sunlight shivered through the perfectly circular wound in the growling clouds. They began to twist and turn in a spiral; the sunlight faded but not before sending twinkling stars of hail about in all directions. Just as the sky appeared to fall, a brilliant flash erupted from the maw.

Hunter turned away for half a minute as the light ebbed, only to see the sky come crashing down to the earth in a towering cyclone. Sand picked up and slapped his face, but he could not tear his eyes from the twisting giant as it came closer to them. One by one the creatures on Terrador's back were swept away into the churning stomach of the twister.

Their hands flailed to find a purchase, but even if they did manage one eventually they were pulled away, at first dropping but then rising. Some showed what appeared to be a pair of wings, but even as they struggled to tread away from the current it seemed to strengthen.

Terrador was steadfast, holding not only himself but all of the city from being turned upside down into the sky. The tornado approached cautiously, as if taunting the Earth Dragon. Terrador simply watched as it came just yards from his face, the turbulent winds forcing his wings rise ever so slightly and ripple furiously.

At last his brothers took it away, coaxing it about the city to disperse the clouds and rain. As it passed over the city stray demons were taken into its maw, and as it stepped over the walls, into the large pools that gathered around the outside of the city, the water was pulled into the sky and dispelled into ash by the light of the sun.

A dozen sconces beheld the gentle light of their torches. The flames hissed on, casting pools of light against the wall, some with embers dribbling to the floor.

Children played games upon the walls with bits of chalk while mothers soothed crying young and fathers sat with headaches.

It had only been an hour, plus a half at the most, but tension was building across the Moles that resided in the underground cavern. Roland idly paced about, checking upon one of the many little coves where groups of two or three families huddled. One group of children had found a small branch that lead to another cove where they were telling ghost stories in the dark; Roland ushered them back into the main chambers. They tried to pitch fits but eventually walked back home with shoulders slouched.

"Excuse me?"

"Hm?" He turned to see one of the more official of the civilian Moles: a doctor by the name of Mort. "Can I help you?"

"Well…I would hate to bother you but, the others are wondering how long we'll be down here before we hear of news on the outside."

Roland sighed. "It will be a short while."

"That's conveniently vague," a woman said from one of the coves. "I'd be more satisfied if you said we're going to rot down here for several more years."

"Well, you see ma'am the Dragons are still handling the city—"

"You mean _losing_ the city," another man spoke from yet another cove.

"Losing the city?" The whispers began; Roland felt the air tighten.

"Now, everyone, please remain calm," He said, his hands pushing down as if to tangibly suppress the rising mood.

"Remain calm? There're demons out there by the hundreds and we're trapped down here! You want us to remain bloody _calm_?" There was a moment of silence. The man that was speaking stood and approached Roland. "Why not tell us what's going on? You and the Dragons said you had the situation under control two days ago."

"I'm sorry, sir," Roland began, "But the rain and the new creatures appeared unexpectedly and caught us off guard but we're handling the situation."

Glances exchanged about the central chamber.

"And what exactly are those Dragons _doing_? Last I saw they were scurrying with their tails between their legs like dogs."

"Hey!"

Roland heard a shout but he did not know from where it came. He looked about but could not see the origin.

"Over here!" A spec of light fluttered through the air just under the ceiling. A small dragonfly, with his arms crossed, glared at the group of Moles surround Roland.

"Who might you be?" The belligerent man questioned.

"My name is Sparx and one of those Dragons you just insulted _happens _to be my brother."

"Oh really?" The man spat, "Is he one of the fat ones?"

Sparx scoffed, "No way. Spyro's the best Dragon of all of 'em. He'll set those little demon-thingies straight."

"Excuse me but how exactly are you his _brother_?"

"Gentlemen please," Roland said, "I'm sure that—"

"And doesn't he waltz around with that other Dragon—Cynder?"

At this the air became still.

"Well yes," Sparx replied, "But I keep telling him—"

"That Dragon enslaved my father." The hushed silence deepened. "As far as I'm concerned the Dragons are worthless. If we want to take back our City we have to do it ourselves!"

Suddenly uproar began; several Moles stood up and threw their fists into the air.

"Roland what's going on?" Mason threaded his way through the crowd, "I told you to keep these people under control!"

"I tried," Roland shouted, "But I just can't—"

Suddenly the earth trembled; the torches were snuffed one by one, some crashing to the floor. The uproar was swiftly quelled as the darkness invaded. Above them they could hear the sounds of a pandemonium.

Slowly, over ten straining minutes, the sounds and rumbles died away, and the underground was left silent as a tomb.

"What was that?" Someone asked.

"Everyone, remain calm," Mason said sternly. "A few of us will go and check it out. Roland, you're with me."

"Let me come too," said the doctor, "If there's any injured I can help."

Deftly they made their way back up the tunnel in the work of just a few moments. Roland and Mason, with the aide of the light from the dragonfly, pulled the chains that opened the doors leading to the underground. As they did, a shaft of light pierced through the door. It grew as the door opened wider, and a single breath came from down below as the dozens of families came to the edge of the tunnel.

Roland stepped out to see Terrador standing with his brothers, an open sky above them. Hunter emerged from a building to the left. With the Cheetah's help, Mason began ushering the Moles out.

"You go to the Dragons," Mason ordered to Roland, "Take the doctor."

"Right."

"Don't leave without me!" The dragonfly shouted, chasing after them.

"Roland," Terrador acknowledge as he approached, "it is good to see you; how are the citizens?"

"They're shaken up but I think they're all right—"

"Where's Spyro?" Sparx shouted. "What happened to him? I saw him here a while ago before I was taken underground _against my will_."

"Ah, Sparx. Please, look up into the sky."

As Sparx did look to the sky he saw his brother, quickly gliding down to earth. "Hey!" Sparx shouted, waving his arms, "Hey! Spyro over here! We're over…" His voice trailed as he saw the expression on his brother's face and the object in his arms. As the Purple Dragon landed heavily onto the earth; Cynder rolled from his arms to the ground and rested upon her back, motionless.


	23. Chapter 23

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 23**

"By the Ancestors…"

"We need a doctor!"

"I—I'm a doctor!"

"Mort? Thank goodness it is you! You recollect my instructions upon the treatment of—"

"Yes, Volteer, I remember."

"Spyro. …Spyro. Come here, come by me."

"What happened young one?"

"Cyril, now is not the time."

"Your preliminary, Mort?"

"No external wounds. But look how her wing twitches and note the spark when I touch the metal hammer to her scales? My guess is she was struck by lightning."

"I could've told you that, I was there!"

"Spyro, please, calm down."

"My funnel—my funnel—my funnel—funnel…ah, here!"

"What's he doing?"

"Quiet, Cyril, he's listening for a heartbeat and breathing."

_I need you. We need you._

"What's with the expression Mort; something wrong?"

_You cannot die here, you reckless whelp. I will _not_ remain in Convexity a moment longer!_

"…Whispers? It sounds like whispers…"

_Get up! Get up now! Release me from this prison!_

"Whispers?"

"Yes…like a dozen voices at once…"

_Rise… Rise…!_

"They're getting…louder…"

_Rise Black Dragon!_

"C'mon girl, c'mon…you gotta wake up…you just _gotta!_"

Cynder felt her body sting all over; her mind whirred and blood surged throughout her numb limbs. The darkness gave way to a flood of light—painful, delicious light. Her fists clenched and she took in a gasp of air, let it out and then took in another.

Sparx fluttered across her eyes; she followed him left and right.

"She's awake!" He shouted, "Everyone she's awake!"

"Breathing seems normal…her pulse is normal…can you hear me? Can you speak?"

Cynder felt her strength regaining and she lifted her left hand to the air, reaching up to Sparx. He floated near and placed both hands upon her finger. "…Why…" She croaked, "Why…do _you_ have to be the first thing I see?"

"Hey now, a lot of ladies would be happy." Sparx patted her finger with a wide beam, and then pointed behind with his thumb. "The one you wanna look at's over there."

Cynder craned her neck and followed Sparx as he flew over to his parents within the crowd of watchful Dragons and Moles. The Dragons were side-by-side: Volteer stood most forwardly and was first in the line followed by Cyril who was very far back and then Terrador.

She craned her neck down Terrador's arm to see, last in the line, Spyro.

"Go on, Spyro," Terrador spoke softly, lifting the comforting hand from Spyro's shoulder.

Spyro ran to Cynder's side, but the doctor spoke and caused him to falter.

"Don't excite her, she needs to remain calm—Wait, what are you—?"

Cynder turned over to her stomach and, with shaken limbs, began to stand. Spyro was already at her side, helping her up. She took a moment to settle her balance, and looked about. "Is everyone okay?"

"Everyone's fine Cynder," Spyro said, although his voice was slightly curt.

"I was asking Terrador if—"

"Everyone's. Fine." A hush fell. "You would have been too if you'd just listened to me."

"Spyro, please, y—"

"Don't 'Spyro, please,' me," he snapped, "I told you I could do it on my own, but _no_—you had to be reckless, careless. If you had just _thought_ for one second about—"

"Spyro." Terrador's voice was low, yet it caught the young Dragon's words. "Cynder took the risk to help you, and to help this entire city."

Spyro's shoulders dropped as he exhaled. "I'm just glad you're all right," he said softly.

"We all are," Cyril spoke.

"Speak for yourselves!" An angry voice shouted.

Cynder's ears rang as something heavy collided with her head. She backed away, clamping her hands upon her scalp. She gazed into the crowd.

"Who threw this?" Spyro hefted the object—a large stone—and tossed it onto the ground a few feet in front of him. "Who threw it?" He shouted against the silence.

The Moles looked at one another. Finally one of them spoke, "_I _did." He stepped forward; Mort recognized him as the angry guy from earlier—still angry.

Spyro started to speak, but Cynder hushed him. With one hand still holding onto the budding lump, she stepped forward.

The Moles backed away just a little, except for the one who had thrown the stone.

"What's your name?" Cynder asked.

"Vinnie; what's it to you, Black Dragon?"

She nodded, "Vinnie," she repeated evenly, and at last removed her hand, checked it for blood and found none. "I don't think that rock was big enough, if you ask me."

The stares were not easily ignored, but Vinnie seemed to have a harder time with them. He was obviously confused at her response. "I couldn't find a bigger one." He said curtly, crossing his arms.

"I see." She walked ever closer to him, but stopped after a few paces. "What exactly was it for?"

"You know very well," he said with a furrowed brow, "You enslaved us three years ago, and forced us to mine the bowels of Munitions Forge." He waved an arm to the crowd of Moles behind him, "Everyone that _survived_ still remembers, and it's a very hard memory to keep."

Cynder looked down for just a moment, and then raised her eyes to look at Vinnie once again. "Who _didn't_ survive?" She asked.

This caused Vinnie to visibly start. "What do you care?"

"What was his name?"

The Mole started even more, "What do you mean?" He huffed.

"Someone close to you—father, brother, son—someone you loved didn't survive. Who was it; what was his name?"

Vinnie sighed, shaking his head. His right hand nervously tugged at his whiskers. "My father's name was…Albert." The Mole's face hardened once again. "Why exactly do you want to know?"

She stepped forward once more, this time closing the gap so that she was right in front of Vinnie. "Because I want to remember them."

"Remember them, why?"

She padded at the ground. "Vinnie, what I did to you and your people at Munitions Forge three years ago was because I was under Malefor's influence."

"You call that an excuse?" He snapped.

"No," she shook her head, "I accept responsibility. I can apologize all I want—and I _do _apologize—but that's not enough, so I want to know their names. The names of everyone who didn't make it."

The Mole's cold stare continued for several moments, then at last it broke and his eyebrows relaxed. Suddenly Vinnie turned away, quietly sobbing.

"Hey, I didn't mean to—"

"It's all right," Mort's voice came rushing in. "I think he understands." The doctor rested his hands upon the emotional Mole, quietly escorting him back toward the crowd. "Come on Vinnie, just relax…"

Spyro walked up to Cynder's side.

"Son…" A voice came from the crowd of Moles, "Remember what we discussed?"

"Yes dear, I think now is the time."

"Wha—_now_? In front of all these people?" Sparx's arms hung as he sighed. "All…all right…" He darted over to the Dragons, nodded at Spyro, and rested his hands upon Cynder's nose.

"Can I help you, Sparx?" She asked after he remained silent.

"Well…um…see, it's like—" He looked back at the crowd, swallowed. "Um…I may have…well…misjudged you…said some bad things about you…"

"I believe," Terrador spoke after an appropriate silence, "that we have all misjudged her." There was a heartbeat's pause.

"I just…uh…wanted to say I was…well, sorry." He smiled nervously, rubbed her nose, and drifted away.

"And thus," Volteer spoke, "it would appear that in correcting our misconstructions, the final shackle will release its hold."

"Look, Cynder," Spyro held up her arm.

She stared at it, and then looked into his eyes—his warm, bright and smiling eyes.

"You're free," he spoke with suppressed joy.

"No…" She said quietly, then once again more loudly. She tried to tear her hand away, but he held onto it.

"Cynder, what's the matter?" He struggled to calm her frantic motions.

"Don't touch me!" As she spoke, her fist rose up under his jaw, and the hollow _clack_ of bone against bone resounded through the air.

Spyro backed away on his rear legs, clutching his jaw and emitting a groan through clenched teeth.

A crack appeared on the shackle. "Not now," she said, clasping it as if to keep it on; she looked about. "Please not now…"

"Young one," Cyril stepped forward, "what seems to be the prob—"

"Stay away!" She shouted, "All of you stay away!"

Terrador tried to speak to her, but she took off into the sky.

"I don't understand, Terrador" Volteer spoke, "As I recall you surmised Spyro and Cynder were trying to get rid of those shackles."

"Perhaps something we misunderstood?" Cyril questioned.

"Spyro, what…?" Terrador's voice trailed. Spyro was already a hundred feet away, giving chase.

Cyril poised to take flight, "We must go after them."

"…No," Terrador replied.

"Why not?" Cyril insisted, "What if something happens? For all we know this could lead to incredible danger. Don't tell me you can't sense the aura about her."

"Whether it comes to that or not…it is between Spyro and Cynder alone."

"I agree wholeheartedly."

"Not you too, Volteer…"

"But Cyril, can you not see? The shackles are but a small part of a much grander scheme—_what_ scheme I do not claim to know."


	24. Chapter 24

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 24**

Spyro ignored the glaring sun as he chased through the air. He forgot his anger, his worry, his weariness; he abolished the voice of his mind whispering in his ear and focused on the one thing he lacked: speed.

She was much faster than him, much slimmer; in the forest, in the air, no matter what he found himself chasing her. He tried his best to catch the bursts of wind but she managed to stay evenly ahead—no she was even widening the gap.

He began clawing, encouraging a gust of wind in his favor but none came. To add insult, she abruptly spun on a pin, hovering in the air for a heartbeat before she raised her hands.

A roar hit Spyro, with force that took the air from his lungs. He dropped, stunned from the sonic blast of wind, clawing at the empty sky to regain his orientation. The ocean swallowed his vision as he writhed in the openness; closer and closer it rose up to swipe him.

A gentle rush caught him, and spun him in place head-over-tail twice before he was able to right himself and tread the breeze. A wave rolled by underneath him, lapping at his tail. He glared, turned, and began the chase again.

But there was no hope; she was now a dot, and shrinking every moment. Still he chased, trying to muster his own magic wind—but he had spent so much energy forming the tornado he barely managed a sigh.

For two hours he chased, and it was only after that length of time that he realized just where she was headed. He began to feel dread and fear simmer inside him; he became aware of the sylvan, dead land that loomed before him; of the dark and foreboding territory.

The place where he had first confronted her face-to-face.

Cynder's own fortress stood like a dark hand reaching to smite the sun. It was decayed and broken, but the central tower was still whole.

The voice in Spyro began asking questions, making assumptions—accusations. But he ignored it. Let Cynder explain. If there was an explanation.

Three miles…two…one. The sun was behind them now; they had passed morning, literally, and Spyro alighted into a run at the edge of the broken tower in the midday sun. He wrapped around the circumference, guided only by a distant glimpse of her disappearing in the same way. On the far side was an open sore in the base of the wall which allowed for him to climb into the tower; this is where Cynder entered, and where Spyro followed, albeit a few minutes behind.

Inside the sun caste long rectangles aslant the ground through the tall and narrow windows that decorated the circumference of the circular room. A perpetual gust of wind fluttered tapestries that rested against the wall between each window. Dust motes swirled about from the dark red carpet decaying upon the floor.

At the far end of the room was a set of long stairs from wall to wall. Three steps led to a raised platform that took up a third of the room, space large enough for a full-grown dragon to stretch and be comfortable.

Cynder stood at this section, facing away from Spyro. Before her, a section of the wall was cut away into the semblance of a window. The brim of the window was decorated by iron, woven into artistic arcs and curves to resemble a frame. The sun was barely within the frame, just underneath the apex.

The shackle upon Cynder's wrist was impatiently pulsating with light. She lifted her wrist to the air, and the shackle began to crack, and break. A burst of wind unfurled her wings. The sun was shrouded behind the right one, exposing the spray of creases beneath the translucent skin. The shackle fell onto the ground. Cynder backed away one step as it rose into the air, possessed of a dark aura.

"Why did you follow me?" She asked without turning her gaze, "I told you to stay away."

"What's going on," he demanded, "I want an answer."

Finally, she tore her eyes from the floating artifact to look at him. "You don't get it do you?"

"Get _what_?" He snapped, stepping forward.

Cynder laughed; it was a tired, sad, and yet devious laugh. "The voice…from the Temple. It was all his plan."

"Plan," Spyro approached the first step, "What plan?"

"I realized it when we helped the Atlawa. He spoke to me while you should have been sleeping." Her eyes darkened, like the moon becoming shrouded by clouds. "Make everyone believe I'm on a sad and heartwarming quest to redeem myself for my past actions. Each shackle that came off symbolically freeing me from my guilt—while at the same time undoing the lock to Convexity."

Spyro paused on the second step. Anger began to well in him. "So it was a lie. You started listening to the voice—without telling me or anyone else." He shook his head. "I thought you were better than that Cynder; we could have figured something out."

"I have figured it out. I have to meet him."

"Him…" Spyro growled, "Malefor?" He glared, "We killed Malefor—unless that was a lie also."

A look of sadness came upon Cynder's face and the cloudiness about her eyes passed; Spyro interpreted it as a false reaction. "No. It isn't Malefor. I don't know who this is."

"But you'd do this anyway?" Spyro placed his talon on the third step. "You'd betray everyone—the Atlawa, the Arboktu, the Moles, the Guardians…_me_—all for _this_?"

The sadness in her eyes deepened. "Spyro don't make it any harder than it already is," she turned her body to face him, "I…"

The artifact hovering in the air began to excite; the aura solidified and a great burst of wind exploded in the tower. As the dust settled, an ominous portal of swirling blue light resided in the once hollow space of the iron frame.

"Cynder," Spyro said, quelling the anger in his voice, "I know you," he placed his hand on her shoulder, "this isn't you. You wouldn't do something like this—you're just confused."

"No, Spyro," she rested her hand over his, "I know exactly what I'm doing." She closed her eyes, and moved closer to him, wrapped her arms around him in embrace. She rubbed her cheek against his. "Please…I know what you're thinking."

"Cynder don't—"

"Please, Spyro," she blew a kiss upon his cheek, "Just…tell me that you can forgive me."

Spyro felt a sting on his shoulder; he glanced to see her tail retreat from his back. A bead of green liquid fell to the ground from its tip. Immediately he felt his mouth dry and tongue swell. A line from his shoulder all the way down his back began to gently burn and numb, and very quickly it consumed the right half of his body—and then the left. He tried to speak but all that came forth was a slur, followed by a trail of saliva.

She lowered him carefully to the ground, and a single drop from her eye fell upon the ground. Her lips moved as she stroked his head but the ringing in his ears was all he heard and all he felt was the tingling in his veins.

She stood, and turned to the dark portal, just three steps away.

One. Two. She turned her head to look back once more—one final time, before the clouds covered the moonlight of her eyes.

Three.

The haze of darkness surrounding Spyro's bloated, sore eyes became painfully bright as a brilliant flare emanated from the portal. He felt the ground shake but it was distant to him; muffled and away from corporeality.

Slowly the darkness came back, until he finally gave in.


	25. Chapter 25

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 25**

It felt like the ocean. Felt like water rushing into his ears, foaming and muffling his hearing. Felt like the pitch and hurl of the waves. Felt like the sink and rise of the current.

It happened every few moments, concentrated in his temples. It happened for only a second but it was intense, dizzying, perturbing. It happened when he drifted back to silence, stirring him up and swelling to the front of his head in a flurry of bubbling agitation before ebbing away allowing him to drop back down.

At last after many times, he did not fall back into the deep sleep. At last he began to realize his surroundings again. At last his swollen tongue felt normal. At last his limbs were under his control. At last he could close his lips and stop the stream of saliva that trickled freely from his open mouth.

He forced his eyes open. A white film of mucus clouded his vision. He blinked to make it go away but only made it worse, thickening so much he could see little rainbows from the orange sunlight upon the ceiling that filtered in through the windows.

He could see his hand but he did not recognize it at first. He wanted to move it but it would not without great effort. The fingers curled, and a weak half-open fist began to form. Another blink and the cloudy haze left his eyes. Saliva washed down his dry throat as he swallowed, beating apart the knot at the base of neck. His heart pulsed thickly in his chest, sending blasts of warm blood throughout his body.

The fist curled further, and his other hand, unseen and resting aside his back, also began to curl. His nostrils flared, forehead furrowed. He felt a surge of life cut through the fatigue and detached sensation; the puppet strings returned to him one by one.

The first finger touched his palm, then the other. One by one they tucked themselves against his palm, until all were snugly nestled together. He clenched but it was still weak, Again; stronger, but still detached and loose. He gritted his teeth, the other hand now ready for the work. He clenched again; the feeling was almost there.

The ground pulsed as a torrent of wind ripped through the tower; Spyro righted to his feet, poised and alert as he could manage. The air circled and the ground protested beneath his feet. Several feet before him, a bead of light fabricated in the center of the dormant gateway to Convexity, and grew with every second.

The light spread to a vertical line, and then fanned out into an oblong bubble. The bubble became bloated and began expanding to the very brim of its border. The blue swirls excited into mists of purple and black.

He hobbled in reverse to the back of the room as a shrill roar burst from the portal.

It was opening again, and something was coming through. A massive five-fingered hand burst forth, and slammed upon the ground, knuckles buckling as it tried to gain a hold. Another hand shot forth, and slowly the hands began pulling.

In a matter of moments, Spyro could see the face of a simian beast; ghost white hair draped unkempt around its coal-black eyes. It huffed a cloud of steam as it came forth, shaking blood from its mane.

In another moment its torso was halfway through, skewed and elongated as it came from the vortex. At last its feet were through. The beast breathed heavily, gasping for air as it rose and stood to a height twice that of Spyro's; it steadied its bulk and then set its black gaze upon the Dragon.

"Where is she?" Spyro snapped, voice still caught in fatigue. "What have you done with Cynder?"

Another shrill roar escaped the ape's gut. It slammed its hand upon the ground causing it to tremble, but the Dragon remained balanced.

Spyro felt threatened, felt the very real rush of danger seeping through the fatigue that continued to dissipate from his mind. He recalled the last memory, of Cynder glancing back; her expression was burned into his mind.

He felt a rage boil within him as the ape stared him down. The creature was tired, bloodied, scored all over his body. It was wounded, but alive—and Cynder, where was she?

Spyro lost his grip. A conclusion twitched upon his mind that he did not want to accept though it became ever stronger. He felt his anger rise to rage.

The ape charged forward, and Spyro did the same; as their scalps collided Spyro felt his weight being thrown backward. He tumbled, once and twice, but recovered on the third roll. He swayed, and as he counted the wounds on the monster's flesh his anger boiled into fury.

This ape was here, and she was not. There was only one answer why: she had fought, and she had lost.

The fatigue vanished. The Dragon felt his blood burn. His vision became sharp. His muscles flexed in a surge of energy. He felt the magic din within him simmer; he felt each element festering like a restless bird demanding to be freed from its cage. Each one was furious, and each one wanted to be loosed at once.

The ape's fists collided with the ground as it charged forward once again, and Spyro's nerves erupted as he opened his maw; a brilliant flash consumed his vision but did not blind him. There came a shriek of pain and fright. The ground trembled and the air whipped but Spyro felt nothing. A high-pitched, ethereal sound rippled through the air.

Slowly the ape's shrieks turned to sobs, and finally faded to whispers. Spyro's shoulders slouched as the light faded with the shut of his lips. His head sank. The wind slowed and the tapestries settled to their resting places. The ape lay motionless upon the floor, and the sun peeked through the windows far in front of him on its downward trek to the other side of the world. The sound of the swirling vortex died away as it closed.

Spyro did not move for a long time. He remained stooped, eyes closed. In his mind, Cynder was glancing back. Now he understood the expression upon her face. She did not betray him, or anyone else. She betrayed the very thing that tried to control her. That was her intent all along. Whether or not the evil inside was affecting her, she intended to go in alone and stop what she had started—even if she would not return.

"Are those tears for me?"

His eyes flicked open. A drop fell from his snout toward the ground, where three other specs of water glinted in the sunlight. His gaze rasied hesitantly, eyes scanning over the fallen body of the ape until they came upon her.

She was behind the ape's massive form, visible only from the shoulders up. She looked at him sideways, only the left side of her face and body in full view. She gave semblance of a smile, but it lasted only a second.

He began to circle the corpse, and as he did she walked backward away from him, but with great effort it appeared. He stopped.

"Gaul," she spoke against the silence.

He began to walk again; after one retreating step, she gave up.

"He bode his time for three years," she explained as he slowly approached, and all the while she kept the right side of her face away, "waiting for us to come back and vanquish Malefor," her eye trailed down to the ape's face in front of her. "He's bigger than I remember…a lot stronger too."

As Spyro approached her she kept her face sideways. Now all that was between them was Gaul's motionless head; tongue cut and bloodied, eyes listless and glazed, an awful stench wafting as the last of lifeless sighs escaped.

"His plan was almost perfect, but he didn't count on one thing."

"You fought back." Spyro stated, resting a hand on her shoulder. "You went in with the intention of fighting back." He sighed. "The look on your face before you went in…" He pursed his lips and cupped her chin. He tried to turn her head to look directly into both eyes but she resisted. He stopped the motion, but did not let go his hand. "Why did you go in alone?"

"I didn't know what was behind the door. It could have been anyone or anything—I honestly expected Malefor, despite what I said earlier."

"And you went in alone." His tone was low. "Why didn't you tell me your intention, why didn't you let me go with you? You could have—"

"I didn't want you to get hurt." She interrupted softly.

"_Hurt?_"

He forced her head, and then took his gaze away for just a second before regaining his composure.

Her right eye was closed, and a long gash ran down her face beside it, passing over the knot she had acquired from Vinnie. Congealed blood protruded from the wound and fell down her cheek and over her lips in dry rivulets.

"You should have told me," he said, his voice rising, "We could have prepared."

"Spyro," she replied calmly.

He stopped. His mouth hung open for a moment before he closed it.

"This was my problem from the beginning. You offered to come along, I didn't ask you." She winced, and looked down at something that Spyro could not see, "I had to make Gaul believe I was under his control—I wanted to tell you, Spyro, I really wanted to, but I…"

Spyro stepped around the ape's head, and took Cynder's right arm. He stared at it for an extended moment, before finally letting go. It swung back and forth once before she flexed to stop it, for the arm was without a hand. The flesh at the end of the broken limb was charred, naturally cauterizing the wound.

"The price I pay for toying with your trust, I guess."

"I don't know…what to do…" He admitted. He did not know whether to be angry or relieved; he did not know what emotion he felt as he stared into her unblinking eye.

She nodded, and shuffled as she turned. "Just go."

He watched her shuffle for a moment; she made her way to the crumbling wall. "You can't just stay here."

She looked back, her left hand resting upon the sill of the stone window, and then gazed out to the sky. "I can't fly," she said, and demonstrated by batting her right wing. The bones grated together.

Spyro winced.

"So just leave me for now, go back and tell the others whatever you want. I'll be here when…if…you want to come back and get me." She closed her eye and waited for his protest, but it did not come. Instead, after several silent moments, she heard his talons trot across the carpet and _tic _against the stone. She heard something tear, and fabric falling to the ground. Only after the rhythmic beat of his wings receded into the distance did she finally look.

One of the long tapestries was missing from the window. Torn shreds peeled away from the wall as the wind fluttered into the tower, singing a note as it went by the windows. She shook her head, dispelling her thoughts.

She turned toward the scenery, watched as the sun touched the horizon with its toe. A great band of shimmering light reflected off the ocean, turning the rolling waves into waters of gold and silver.

She clutched the stump of her arm, recalling the moment when she lost it—and quickly sent that thought away. But it was too late; the seal was broken and the strain began to take its toll.

Her breathing became shallow and sporadic. She rested upon the window to try and steady herself but it was worthless. Tremors rippled throughout her body, small and quick at first, and ascending rapidly. Her knuckles buckled and stretched as she tried to control the shakes, to no avail. Even her tongue was quivering.

"It's all your fault," she said to the lifeless form behind her, "Damn ape, stay dead this time!"

"On the bright side, he actually did you a favor."

Spyro stood in front of a wooden hatch at the other side of the tower.

She said nothing as he approached.

"I still don't know what to think," he spoke in a low voice, "And really I don't want to think about it right now. I just want to get out of here." His hands cupped her chin, steadying her shaking face. His thumb gently rubbed away the dried lines of blood that crossed her lips.

She stared at him distantly, as if she could not decide if he was really there.

"You know that I can't—that I _won't _leave you behind." He nodded toward the door from which he emerged, "That hatch leads out of here, but it's blocked just a bit so it might be tricky." His hands fell away from her cheek, and he proffered his right. "I want you to come with me. Will you?"

Her eye darted from his hand to his face, or at least tried. Her lids twitched and her pupil flicked back and forth uncontrollably. She did not speak, either because she could not or because she would not. For a few moments she simply shivered, but finally she calmed herself enough to raise her hand just a few inches above the ground. Immediately it was taken into his grasp.

He moved beside her injured half and lowered, placing the stubbed arm over his neck. "Let me help you walk."

He led the way, balancing her patiently as she took small, hesitant steps. It was the work of three minutes just to get to the hatch only a dozen feet away, and several more to walk down half of the endless flight of stairs circling. He started off clumsily at first but as the time passed he managed to get the hang of coordinating his steps with hers.

All the while she simply followed like a sleepwalker guided by her dream.

They came upon the obstacle he had mentioned; the outer wall had crumbled and a large collection of stones barred their path. Normally it would be an easy task to hop over them but that required four legs, and maybe two eyes.

Spyro made his way over the rocks and then turned back around. He ushered for her hand, and she offered it haphazardly. He guided her over the obstacle with effort; she was uncoordinated and her steps were hesitant and unbalanced, but he could tell she tried her best to work with him.

"It's okay, you're just a little shocked," he excused, "Just step forward, I've got you."

She stepped, and then slipped.

He took a bracing step backward but the breadth was too wide; he missed the stair and slipped down farther than he expected. She jerked forward, and he caught her but lost his balance. She tumbled without so much as a sigh, but as she let go of Spyro's hand to catch the stair, his palms slapped up under her chest and for a moment he grunted as he lifted her back up to balance while her arm dangled lazily.

"Sorry, are you okay?" He expected no response. "It's not much farther."

He went back to her right side and helped balance her again. Her steps were a little more hesitant, but he relentlessly coaxed her to keep going, that she was doing perfectly fine. Finally, they made it to bottom of the flight, and through the threshold into the open air.

Outside was fresh and cool. Cynder felt the warm sun lick her wounded face. It was a little farther along, up to its calves in the ocean. She felt Spyro lift her up onto his back and carry her over to a familiar piece of fabric, laid out upon the open stone floor, torn end ruffling in the gentle wind.

He set her upon the middle of the tapestry so that she crossed it transversely. He gathered the ends of one side, met her eyes and nodded as he passed toward the other, a smile flashing on his face for just a second.

She let the fabric fall on her back as it folded over, and watched him as he went to gather the other ends. At last she realized what he was doing, while his wings lifted him off the ground.

The ends of the tapestry became taught, and he beat his wings more heavily.

She felt the ground fall away, and her body sagged comfortably into the fabric. It rose up to her chin, fitting snugly around her. She looked up at Spyro as he flew with a corner of tapestry in each talon.

She averted her gaze when he looked down at her, toward the purple ocean mixing together with the pink sky. She could see their shadow far off in the distance, slowly gliding along the marbled surface.

After a while, she sighed bitterly.

The shackles were gone. She was free.


	26. Chapter 26

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 26**

The air smelled sour, filled with salt. The rock was wet from rain that leaked into the cave. Wind whipped noisily at its mouth. The peel of lightning and sound of thunder were far in the distance, causing the ocean to crash and pitch grumpily.

The mist that blew into the cave wetted Cynder's face.

Spyro worked to start a small fire behind her. "Your tremors have stopped," he said as the embers came to life.

She could feel the heat against her hindquarters.

"Why don't you move out from the rain?" He extended his hand to help her up.

Her eye rolled to him for a moment, then rolled back toward the outside.

Spyro lied down beside her, on her left side. He looked out into the rain, the mist catching his face as well. He blinked the water away from his eyes. The dark curtain of the stars was drawn, and the moon performed its play.

Far in the distance, there was a brilliant spectacle of sapphire light; a patch of forest unique to any other forest in the world.

"The Dark Pools."

Spyro looked at her, water flinging from face as it turned. He was not exactly sure she had spoken at all. "I'm sorry?"

"The Dark Pools," she repeated, her eye fixated on him.

"What about them?"

"...It's not over, Spyro."

"What isn't over?"

Cynder's eye darted forward for just a second, and then back at him. She shifted, propping herself up by the stub as she tried to rise.

"Wait, let me—" He paused, his hands upon her shoulder ready to help. But the look in her eye told him she wanted to rise on her own. His hands fell away.

Her legs shook as she rose, her front leg buckling as she tried to find a balance on odd limbs. Finally she reached the threshold, shifting weight onto her back legs, and she managed to sit upright.

"Now what?" He asked.

She turned her head.

He caught a glimpse of her wounded eye, weeping fresh blood as the scab cracked from getting wet. He followed her gaze; she looked to the back of their shelter, where a long tunnel yawned beyond the fire.

She rose; her weight teetered from front to back. She abated his urges to help with periodic glances. Finally she found balance, and moved her right foot forward. Her front left moved up, and in habit the stubbed limb moved with it; she stumbled but did not fall.

He watched as she began to walk, a sort of pain aching inside of him. He wanted to help but he could not—should not. He saw determination on her taught lips. He followed her as she walked, stepping only every few moments so that she remained a foot ahead. Her pace was slow and haggard at first, but after just a few moments it became more natural.

She led him, whether she intended to or not; in fact it seemed she had forgotten him altogether. She disappeared as the firelight fell out of view. But just as it disappeared, another light began shining in the cave. It was dim and gray at first but quickly intensified to a deep purple.

Spyro stopped when his eyes came upon the black smoke that hovered over his feet. He looked up to Cynder still treading onward around the turn, toward the source of the acrid fog.

The Dark Pool was small compared to the others he had seen. It was more akin to a glorified puddle, and yet it gave Spyro the same fear and anger he had come to don when the slightest sign of this darkness was made.

"Cynder, stay away from it."

She ignored him. One-two…three, one-two…three. Her steps, like a drum off of beat, continued on.

"Cynder," Spyro repeated in warning, strafing to the side of some invisible boundary he did not allow himself to pass.

This time she stopped, just a step away from the pool. Her head rose and she turned back to him, eye gleaming in the light.

That same expression. Spyro felt his blood go cold.

"This is going to frighten you," she said, and made her way into the water to the center of the pool. She stood for a moment, then her right shoulder dropped abruptly.

Spyro stepped forward as he saw her roll into the water.

The reaction was immediate; the light dimmed, then brightened against the walls, displaying ghostly shadows all about him. He watched as she lay on her back in the water, surrounded by the smoke. It gathered around her, engulfing her.

He took another step, but the smoke pushed him back; his legs buckled and his jaw crashed to the floor. He blinked, shaking his slurred vision into focus. As he gathered himself, the smoke began to dissipate. He called her name, dashing forward until he felt his hand breach the water.

He balked, jerking his hand back. He looked down at the water—and slowly submerged his hand back in once more. It was clear, lucid, and coolly fresh. It was no longer the thick, black and viscous liquid. He heard a grunt, almost of pain, and looked up.

Cynder rose to stand upon four limbs, both eyes bolt open and glaring into the water. She grunted again, staggering side-to-side. A dark mist surrounded her; her eyes were glazed and black as coal.

Spyro tore into the pool. As he approached, arms outstretched, she took them, pulled him closer and held him, her throat emitting an elongated sound of pain or anger or frustration—maybe all that at once.

She bit onto his shoulder, muffling screams into his scales.

Amidst the screams he heard what sounded like a dozen voices whispering all around him. She began to tremble uncontrollably in his arms. He held her close, tried to subdue her quivering, tried to abate the rising fear and confusion boiling inside of him.

"_Stop it!_" He finally shouted over several seconds.

Silence. About them was utter silence.

He opened his eyes with great hesitation, and met hers; white and gentle with dilated pupils. He shifted, disengaging from her embrace. His hands held hers, and he stared upon the new arm. In the pale light that still came from the glowing algae in the water, he could see that it was different somehow: made of scales somewhat the color of the Dark Pools.

His hand let go for only a moment as he traced a scar that ran from behind her eye to the edge of her cheek. It too was the same color, pocked within the reptilian skin. Beyond the scar was her wing, also embroidered in the same colored scales, like stress-marks in the living limb of a tortured tree.

"Spyro," she said, and he met her eyes once again.

"What's happening to you?" He whispered, "What do you mean it's not over—what's going on, how did you get your hand back?"

She remained silent.

"_Answer me!_" His voice was loud within the small chamber; not with anger, but with confusion that demanded clearing. A moment of silence blanketed them, broken only by the sound of dripping water.

She looked at him, and placed her hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it. "I know you're scared…and I know you're confused," she took in a breath. "Spyro, there are many facets of evil in this world and I know most, if not all, of them."

"Some of them," she continued, "are benign. But some of them are very powerful…it took all I had to keep Gaul from controlling me." She swallowed, "A part of me is evil, and someday I'll do something like this again; I _know_ it will happen." She quickly took his hand in hers, "But I _don't_ wantthat to happen, I really don't," she insisted.

"I don't either," he said, squeezing her hand thoughtfully. "But I don't believe that what you say is inevitable. A part of you is evil, sure, but you're _good_ Cynder, I know you are." The expression on her face seemed hurt, as if she did not want his kind words to enter her ears. He stroked her cheek. "If there's a way for you to control that evil part of you, I'm sure you'll find it."

"There…" She traced her fingers over the back of his knuckles. "There _is _a way," she pulled his hand to the crook of her shoulder, "But…you may not like it…"

"I don't care. Whatever it is I'll try it."

For a moment doubt crossed her face, but at last she gave a feeble nod. With the quickest motion, her newly aqcuired hand slashed down his shoulder, cutting a thin wound into the scales. She pressed her palm against the wound as he hissed in pain, and comforted him on the other.

For several moments her hand rested there. He opened his eyes to see her face, stilled and with sorrow. He could feel warmth from the blood seeping down his shoulder, saturating her palm.

At last she drew away, and as she did he covered the wound with his own hand, but the wound was already becoming scabbed. She rubbed her palms together, ensuring they were completely covered in the dark red ink. She then lifted her chin up, exposing her neck. Her hands cupped around her throat, painting the blood in a circle about her neck.

A gentle glow of deep red peeked through her fingers as the base of her palms came together. She made a motion as if she was gripping a length of rope, and pulled away from her throat—and an ethereal rope did appear. Once it was a foot in length she let one hand go and held it palm-up.

He hesitated for a moment, his lips parting and closing while his hand floated adrift. The display was very eerie, and made the tips of his horns tingle nervously. He looked from her open palm, clean of his blood, to her eyes and back. He licked his lips and slowly rested his hand upon hers, palm down.

Quickly she clapped her hands together, sandwiching his and the thread of magic together. She waited for a moment, and with a contented exhalation, released him.

He pulled away quickly, clutching the thread. It felt solid in his grasp. He opened his hand, and blinked; he turned his palm over with surprise. The thread was not simply held in his hand, it went _into _it.

"What is this?" He asked with uncertainty, attempting to pull the thread out of his palm. It did not budge, but he could feel tension all throughout the arm as he tugged.

"A leash."

"A leash?"

"If ever you're worried; if ever you're concerned; if ever you just don't trust me; pull on the leash." She cupped his hand and closed it about the thread; it disappeared into latency. "It's directly linked to my power. If you pull it, I promise you I'll become docile."

"_Docile_?" He repeated, "Why are you doing this Cynder?"

"Because," she said solemnly, "I don't want you to trust me."

"…What do you mean?"

"I mean…I _do_ want you to trust me, but I know I have to earn it back." Her lips tightened. "What I did was…not what I should have done. You're right, I should have told you."

"You did what you felt was—"

"No," she interrupted sharply, slapping the back of his hand gently, "Don't go excusing me. You know what I did hurt you, hurt your trust." She met his eyes.

"Cynder…" He breathed out as if to say something, but no words came to mind.

Eager to break the moment she began to walk, and led him silently back through the cave.

As they approached the hissing fire, a cool and gentle wind rushed to them, churning the stale air they had been breathing for the past ten minutes. The storm was passed.

"It stopped raining," Cynder commented as they approached the mouth. They lied upon the tapestry, crammed and furrowed into the small opening of the cave. "Look," she said, pointing with her new finger, "Over there; you can see the forest, even from this far away."

"Is that what it was?" He asked rhetorically, "I couldn't tell. Didn't think about it much."

"It's so bright, Spyro. I wonder what it looks like close-up at night."

He placed his hand over hers.

"I bet it's beautiful," she continued, unaware of the action, "The Arboktu are lucky to have such a bright and happy place to live."

"I think," he finally spoke, "that it's bright and happy because of what it was made of."

She nodded, "I guess so. The crystals are very pretty by themselves but I never thought they could reshape into trees and leaves and—"

"I wasn't talking about the crystals."

"You're not? What else is it made of, then?"

He squeezed her hand gently, "Belief."

Her shoulders tingled from the magnitude of the single word. She did not even think to appreciate it in such a way. Her eye caught him staring at her.

He spoke softly, "I know I've said it before, but I think I understand what you're going through. And I'll play along—" he shook his head, "well that's not really a good way to put it. What I mean is; I will not trust you."

She took her hand away, curling it underneath her chest. She stared out to the twinkling light so far in the distance, breathing stiffly. She was still angry, mostly at herself. Finally she relaxed, and he patiently took her hand once again.

"Thank you." She said.

"But you will get it back. I promise. And when you do, I won't need this leash anymore."

She shook her head. "You put too much faith in me."

"You said I shouldn't trust you—you never said anything about having faith in you."

She sighed. "I guess I can't change that now. But the others…they won't share that opinion." She scratched at the rocky ground. "Are you…going to tell them?"

"No," he replied softly but immediately, "I'll leave that up to you. Now get some rest," he whispered, kissing her on the cheek.

"I can't sleep, not after today."

"Try," he pleaded.

"…All right, but only if you try too."

"I will, but, I don't think I'll get there."

"Well then…let's both stay up."

Spyro chuckled, and despite how terrible she felt inside Cynder began to laugh as well. "Look's like we're at a stalemate."

"How about this," she proposed, pointing to the glowing dot of light in the distance, "we'll have a staring contest. We'll both look at the forest," she waved her finger, "no blinking, and no looking away. Whoever falls asleep first has to sleep the rest of the night; the other gets to stay up if she wants."

"She?" He chuckled, headbutting her nicely, "I see how this works. All right, you're on."

At the count of three they began their game, all four eyes staring out to the open air. It was like looking into the mirror of another world, framed so concisely by the edge of the cave. They stared so deeply for three minutes that Spyro could see wisps of fog in the air above the trees. For a moment, he broke his gaze and glanced at Cynder.

"Hey!" She lightly slapped his shoulder with her palm, "That's cheating."

"What about you?"

"…I was making sure you weren't cheating," she said, fidgeting with her hands.

"All right, let's just start over."

He counted to three once more, and a new round began. This time, he kept his eyes fixated upon the forest—whether she would or not. Several minutes passed. He felt something lightly tap his shoulder. He brushed his hand over it to sweep it away and his fingers bumped against something. He craned his neck to see.

All he saw out of the back of his eye was her tail swishing back and forth across the ground. He shifted for comfort and began concentrating on the forest again, and after another moment he realized that the light looked a little foggy to his eyes. It finally hit him when his body felt heavy.

"You…" he grumbled, the sedative from her poison element getting him for the second time, "…Such a…cheater…"

She leaned over and kissed his cheek as he blinked, trying pitifully to resist. She covered his eyes with her hand and pulled his head to rest on her shoulder. He breathed deeply, exhaled, and fell asleep. "I warned you not to trust me," she said with irony, stroking his forehead. "Sweet dreams, Spyro."


	27. Epilogue

**The Legend of Spyro**

**Shadow Repentance**

**Chapter 27**

**Epilogue**

"So that is how this forest came to be."

"Yes, Great Dragon."

"Just so I clearly understand; he tried twice?"

"Yes, twice, it seems—twice."

"Please, describe this with more detail for me."

"Well, Great Dragon, both times had several things in common: the ground shook, the crystals began to glow and the air began to rush—"

"Even the very sea was in uproar—the sea!"

"Yes; all of these things occurred. But the first time, the crystals began shattering. My guess is he strained himself—pushed himself to the limit and lost control."

"An accurate assumption, Tyrragor."

"But the second time—the second!"

"It seems Ufufu is most excited about this one; please, tell me more."

"You would not believe—never—what we saw! The very sky dimmed as he suddenly burst with energy—such energy!"

"I believe what my friend is trying to say, is that the second instance was more…visibly dramatic."

"How so?"

"It is as he describes, Great Dragon, but what I noticed most was the expression on his face. He looked so angry and desperate, as if letting us down was a matter of life or death."

"Yes, I have seen that very expression on his face once before—in fact much of it is very familiar. But it is amazing, even for him, to bring a forest back."

"It is—please, tell us more, more!"

"Yes, Great Dragon, I am very interested in what you make of this."

"Hm…Before I get to that, I must ask: Ufufu…how is she?"

"She sleeps—oh how she sleeps. Thank you Great Dragon, for bringing her back to me—thank you."

"You're quite welcome, my friend. Technically, I am not to intervene in such a way as have, but when I saw her so helplessly trapped I could not bear to let such a young life go so easily."

"Great Dragon, if you know him so well why did you not meet him—either of them?"

"They are not ready to see me. That is the simplest explanation. Now, you wished to hear about the Fury."

"The Fury—what is the Fury?"

"When a creature of this world—any creature, big or small—becomes trapped either physically or mentally, they are left with only two choices—"

"To give in or strike back; such action is seen during the Hunt by the prey quite often."

"Yes, Tyrragor. Most Dragons react in such a way. But some are different, and are able to strike back with magical power, which history has called Fury. Yet, even for the two Dragons you met, such a Fury is different—it is stronger still than any other."

"Indeed, I have seen his strength; the forest bears tribute."

"Let not all credit go to him, Tyrragor. I have no doubt that either of them could have performed a feat such as this; and in a way both of them played equal parts."

"The Fury—is based on emotion yes?"

"Yes Ufufu, it is the result of utter anger, sadness, and desperation."

"So selfish, though—so selfish. When one of us is cornered, the others come to help. No one should be left to fend for themselves."

"Not all creatures are the same, my friend. But Great Dragon, Ufufu does bring a question to my mind; if desperation elicits such a powerful effect…would not the opposite emotions elicit such effects as well?"

"How do you mean?"

"What if the Dragon was in a situation where instead of sadness and anger, there was resolve and courage—more positive emotions?"

"I see…that is a very interesting question Tyrragor. Perhaps I can answer it by posing a question to Ufufu."

"Very well."

"If you will pardon me for this, but may I ask you to pretend you are with your daughter in the forest, afire?"

"…Yes, I will pretend."

"All right. Let us imagine that she is caught in the tree and you are looking up from the ground. What would you do?"

"I would save her."

"But it would cost your life."

"No matter to me—no. I would do whatever to save her—whatever I would do whatever."

"I see. Does that answer your question, Tyrragor?"

"…I believe it does, Great Dragon."

"Very good. Now, if you will excuse me, morning comes. I have a long day ahead and must write down this tale. Your information is most appreciated."

"Wait, Great Dragon—what about the Black Rains, the Dark Pools and the Specters?"

"I am sorry Ufufu, but I do not have the answer to those. Not yet. Perhaps when next we meet I will have an answer for you then. …Tyrragor, may I ask you a question in private?"

"Yes, Great Dragon."

"The young girl you mentioned, Hana I believe her name was."

"Yes, her name is Hana."

"I am afraid she must come with me."

"May I ask why?"

"Take me to her family, and I will explain on the way…"


End file.
